LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


This  "0-P  Book"  is  an  Authorized  Reprint  of  the 
Original  Edition,  Produced  by  Microfilm-Xerography 
by  University  Microfilms,  Ann  Arbor,  Michigan,  1967 


POEMS 


BY 


THOMAS  WILLIAM   PARSONS 


BOSTON*    AND   NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTOX,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

tbt  RitJcrtiDe  p>ie0rf,  Cambridge 


1893 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


• 


33p  (Tbomas  ££l.  J3aroono 


POEMS.     i6mo. 

TRANSLATION   OF  DANTE'S    OIVINA   COMME- 
OIA  INTO   ENGLISH    VERSE.     16010,^1.50. 


HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 
BOSTON  AND  Nnw  YORK 


' 


Copyright,  1893, 

B*  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO.  '/  ^ 

f      .  .-•' 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Rivertide  Prett,  Cambridge,  Mast.,   U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


PUBLISHERS'  NOTE 

DR.  PAUSONS  was  singularly  indifferent  to  his 
repute  as  a  poet.  For  poetry  and  for  his  own 
poetic  expression  he  eared  greatly ;  the  perma- 
uenee  of  his  productions  he  left  not  indeed  to 
chance  but  to  the  inherent  vitality  there  might  be 
in  his  verse,  taking  little  pains  to  secure  an  audi 
ence,  and  none  at  all  in  his  later  years  to  making 
such  collections  and  arranging  his  poems  in  such 
order  as  would  insure  the  attention  of  a  world 
distracted  by  the  demand  of  writers  great  and 
small.  In  1854  a  volume  of  his  poems  was  issued 
by  Messrs.  Ticknor  and  Fields,  and  in  1872 
another  general  collection,  "The  Shadow  of  th«» 
Obelisk  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Messrs.  Ilatchards, 
in  London.  He  contented  himself  otherwise  with 
printing,  not  publishing,  thin  volumes  of  verse 
like  4>The  Magnolia,"  and  -The  Old  House  at 
Sudbury,"  which  now  and  then  found  their  way 
into  the  bookstores,  but  more  frequently  were  the 
cherished  possession  of  his  personal  friends.  He 
made  use,  too,  of  magazines  and  newspapers  and 


v  PUBLlSllKRif  NOTE 

printed  leaflets  containing  poems 'of  special  occa 
sions  or  having  some  immediate  interest  for  him 
self  and  his  circle  of  friends. 

It  is  from  these  varied  sources  that  the  pres 
ent  volume  has  been  gathered.  It  does  not  aim 
at  completeness.  Dr.  Parsons  himself,  though  fre 
quently  urged  by  the  present  publishers  to  make 
a  definitive  edition  of  his  poems,  could  never  be 
induced  to  set  about  the  task.  Had  he  done  so 
he  would  most  certainly  have  swept  aside  a  good  - 
iiKfuy  of  his  verses,  for  he  was  a  most  fastidious 
critic  of  his  own  work  after  his  passion  or  his  play 
ful  impulse  had  found  expression.  Therefore  the 
principle  herein  adopted  cannot  be  foreign  from 
his  own  purpose;  the  volume  is  a  somewhat  rep 
resentative  selection,  covering  indeed  the  greater 
portion  of  his  lyrical  writing,  but  by  no  means 
complete.  It  will  be  understood,  of  course,  that 
this  volume  gathers  Dr.  Parsons's  verses  alone. 
The  companion  volume  containing  his  translation 
of  Dante  and  a  brief  biographical  sketch  by  Miss 
Ciuiney  represents  the  great  poetic  passion  of  the 
man. 

4  PA  UK  STREET,  BOSTON, 
October,  181K). 


CONTENTS 


ON  A  BUST  OF- DANTE  .        ,        ..       .       .       .        •        .  1 

1)1  If  OR  FOR  ONE  WHO  FELL  IN  BATTLE    ...        .  4 

A  DIUOE .        .        .        .  6 

UroN  A  LADY  HINUINO     .        .        .        .        .       .        .  8 

To  FRANCESCA     .........  10 

SONO         .       .        .        .        .        .        .        .        •        .  11 

SON<J  FOH  SETTING 13 

VlVA  LA  Ml'HJfM          .  .  .  .  .....  14 

PiKiti,  VALE! .        .        .      10 

Mi'sii'A  THIONFANTE        .        .        .        .       ,        .       .         1$ 
THE  iNTELLEnTAL  REIHTHLIC    .        ,        .       .       .       ..-20 

AUDItKMS  KOIt  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  BOSTON  THEATRE  2"> 

ADDRESS  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  PLAYKHH*  CLUB  .       ,      W 
PROEM       .        .        .        .        .        .        .        ...          32 

I'ILORI.M'H  IKLE     .        .        .        ...        .        ..:!."> 

DOWN  UY  THE  SHORE  IN  DECEMBEK       .  .       .37 

THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  DEEP  ....        .        .        .39 

MARY  BOOTH .       .         44 

HER  KPITAPH       .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  4<» 

LOUISA'S  UUAVK 4H 

To  A  YOUNG  GIRL  DYING  .         .       .       .       ...      50 

THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUNERAL       .        .        .        .       .       .         51 

*•  INTO  THE  NOISELESS  COUNTRY  "      ,        .        ...      57 

STEUART'H  BURIAL  .       .       .       ...         58 


vi  CONTENTS 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER        ....  til 

KMI.KSOM   .                 .        .  .      .         .        .        .        .         .  05 

ANDREW       .        .        .        .        .       .       .        .       .        .07 

EVERETT .        .        .        .        .  08 

ASPROMONTE        .        ...        .        .        .        .        .70 

To  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL   ......  73 

To  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW       .        .        ,        .  70 

WITH  A  VOLUME  OF  KEATS     .        .        ....  78 

TllE  BIRTHPLACE  OF  HoiiERT  BURNS             ....  80 

THE  PKNNYKOYAI 82 

JULY 84 

THK  SCALLOP-SHELL        .        .        .                .        .        .  80 

THE  LAST  (!ENTIAN     .        .        .....        .88 

ON  A  MAGNOLIA  FLOWER         .        .        ,        .        .        .  00 

To  A  LILAC .        .  92 

THE  TAKING  OF  SKBASTOPOL  .        .        .        .        .        .  9(3 

DECEMBER  FOURTEENTH     .        .        .        .                .        .  100 

ST.  JAMF.S'S  PARK     .        .        .        .                 ...  103 

VESPERS  ON  THE  SHORE  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN     .        .  103 

THE  TEMPLE  OF  CONCORD  AT  GIRGENTI         .        .        .  10U 

CAMPANILE  i>i  PISA .110 

SOURFNTO .  us 

HUDSON' Hi VEK    .        . 118 

THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  OBELISK        ...        .        .  122 

LA  PlNETA  DlSTRUTTA 127 

LETTER  FROM  AMERICA  TO  A  FRIEND  IN  TUSCANY        .  120 

ItosLiN  CHAPEL    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  133 

BY  THE  SUDHURY 13") 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  DRINKINO  FOUNTAIN  AT  WAYLAND     .  137 

MARTIAL  ODE    .      .        ....        .        .        .  138 

GUY  FAWKES  DAY  AT  THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  SUDBURY  .        .  140 
THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  SUDBURY  TWENTY  YEARS  AFTER 
WARDS       .        .        .        ,        .        .        ...  143 

MY  SUDBURY  MISTLETOE         .  140 


CONTENTS  vii 

THE  WILLRY  HOUSE        .       .       .       .       ...  147 

THK  ROSE  AND  THE  ORIOLE         .        .        .        ...  155 

SAINT  VALENTINE'S  DAY  .        .        .        .        .                .  157 

HEALTH  AND  WEALTH  AND  LOVE  AND  LEISURE        .  .    159 

NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  THE  PEACOCK       .        .        .        .  101 

To  A  LADY,  WITH  A  HEAD  OF  POPE  Pius  NINTH       .  .    103 
To  A  LADY,  IN  RETURN  FOR  A  HOOK  OF  MICHELANGELO'S 

SONNETS         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  165 

To  A  HUNGARIAN  LADY  —  HOMEWARD  BOUND  .        .  .    107 

ALLK  SORELLE         .        .        .        ...        .        .  1C8 

To  JOSEPHINE       .        .        .        ....  •     .        .        ...     *  .     171 

LILY  OF  STHATH-^AHRAR       ,       .       .       ...  172 

OBITUARY     .        .        .                .        .        .        .        ,  .     174. 

IN  RETURN  FOR  SOME  PRAIRIE  BIRDS    .        .        .        .  170 

To  MADDALKNA    .        .        .        .        ...        .  .     17S 

CANDLEMAS  XIOIIT  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  17t» 

ON  A  PllOTOliRAl'H  RECEIVED  FHoSl  A  FllIEND  IN  ROME  .      182 

ON  A  HEAD  OF  HERMIONE        .        .                .        .        .  183 

To  A  LADY,  WITH  A  HEAD  OF  DIANA          ....  184 

WITH  A  GIFT  OF  LILY-BUDS    .        .        .        .        .        .  187 

WATCHING  THE  RIVER         .        .        .        .        .   .     .  .     18<) 

N.ENIA  AMORIS         .        .                .        .        .        .        .  101 

THINK  NOT  01  ME  AMIOTHE  (  P.OWD         .       .       .  .    10^ 

IN  REMEMBRANCE            .        .        .        .  *              .        .  li»4 

EPITAPH  ox  A  CHILD   .        .        .        .       ...        .  .     !*.>(> 

STANZAS    .         .        . 107 

SLEEP    .        .        ,        .        .        .....  .     1W> 

To  A'*  MAGDALEN".        ...        .        .        .        .  :>01 

THE  GROOMSMAN  TO  ms  MISTRESS      .        .        .        .  .    203 

SOTTO  L'  UsHKRUO  DEL  SENTIRSI  PURO  .     .     .     .  20 i  . 

"  LIKK  AS  THI:  LARK"        .        .        ....  .207 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  AN  ALMS  CHEST  MADE  OF  CAMPHOR- 
WOOD     .        .        .        .        ...        .        .  'Xti 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL                                            .        .  .    211 


viii  CONTENTS 

EASTKU  HYMN .        .        .212 

SONNETS  : 

To  A  POKT  IN  THE  ClTY    .           .           .           .           .           .           .  214 

ON  A   PHOTOGRAPH  OF  AN  UNKNOWN   LADY       .           .  215 

TO  T1IK  NEW   KoYALL  PltOPKiMOlt     .            ...            .  216 

"  0  YE  SWEKT  HEAVENS  !".       .       .       .       •       .  217 

"rriNOS      .        ...        .        .        .        .        ,        .218 

SONNET  XIII.  PROM  THR  VITA  NUOVA        .       .       .  211) 

**  TllKHK  LOOMK1*  A  (IIIKAT  HHAi'E  "            .           .           .           .  220 

BKN  DKLL' INTKLLKTTO       .       .       .       .       .       .  221 

FitoM  DAKWIN  TO  THOMAS  AQUINAS    .        .  222 

223 

IN  SAINT  JOSEPH'S    .        . 224 

"  LIFT  MK,  Loui>.Ii:st;H"      .        .        .        .        .        .  225 

PKOEM  TO  A  TRANSLATION  OF  MANZONI'H  ODE  ON  THE 

DKATII  OF  NATOLEJN    .        .        .        .        .        .        .  220 

"O.KKSTopGon"  .        .        .        ...        .        .    '  230 

MoitNINC,  DltKAMS            .            ....            ..'•'.            .  2o2 

PAitAI'IIKASE  OF  A  PASSAGE  IN  DANTE      ...            .  233 

GriDo's  ATKOKA          .        ,        .        .        .        ...  238 

FlIANCKSCA  DA   UlMIN? .  210 

IN  Kcui'sK   .        .        .        •'..-. 242 

Ll'CKHNA  SIS  PEUlliUM  MEI8        .            .            .            .            .            .  244 

PAUADISI  GLOUIA          .                 .        .        .        .        .        .  245 

COKDA  240 


POEMS 


ON  A  BUST  OF  DANTE 

SEE,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 

Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
I  low  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 

The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song : 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 

Perpetual  eare  and  scorn,  .abide ; 
Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng; 

Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 


Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

o 

No  dream  his  life  was,  — but  a  fight; 
Could  any  Beatrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite? 
To  that  cold  (jhibcllinc's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  Beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame? 


ON  A   BUST  or  DANTE 

The  lips  as  Cunuu's  cavern  close, 

The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 

But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 

Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 

Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 

When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed, 
With  no  companion  save  his  hook, 

To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade  ; 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 

ITis  palm  upon  the  convent's  guest, 
The  single  boon  for  which  he  prayed 

Was  peace,  that  pilgrim's  one  request. 

Peace  dwells  not  here,  —  this  rugged  face 

Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose  ; 
The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  when  Hrst  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 


O.V  A  BUST  OF  DANTE  3 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 

The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth  ; 
Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 

Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth ; 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth  ; 

Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime ; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 

Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

0  Time  !  whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 

The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou; 
That  poor  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 

Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now : 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow  ; 

His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 


DIRGE 

FOR  OXK  WHO  FKLL  IN  BATTLE 

ROOM  for  a  Soldier !  lay  him  in  the  clover ; 

He  loved  the  fields,  and  they  shall  he  his  cover ; 

Make  liis  mound  with  hers  who  called  him  once 

her  lover : 

Where  the  rain  may  rain  upon  it, 
Where  the  snn  may  shine  upon  it, 
Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 
And  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it. 

Bear  him  to  no  dismal  tomb  under  city  churches ; 
Take   him    to  the    fragrant    fields,   by   the    silver 

birches, 
Where  the  whippoonvill  shall  mourn,  where  the 

oriole  perches  : 

Make  his  mound  with  sunshine  on  it. 
Where  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it, 
Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 
And  the  rain  will  rain  upon  it, 

Busy  as  the  bee  was  he,  and  his  rest  should  be  the 
clover ; 

4 


DIRGE  5 

Gentle  as  the  lamb  was  he,  and  the  fern  should  be 

his  cover ; 
Fern  and  rosemary  shall  grow  my  soldier's  pillow 

over : 

Whore  the  rain  may  rain  upon  it, 
Where  the  sun  may  shine  upon  it, 
Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 
And  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it. 

Sunshine  in  his  heart,  the  rain  would  come  full 

often 

Out  of  those  tender  eyes  which  evermore  did  soften : 
Me  never  could  look  cold  till  we  saw  him  in  his 

coil  in. 

Make  his  mound  with  sunshine  on  it, 
Plant  the  lordly  pine  upon  it, 
When*  the  moon  may  stream  upon  it, 
And  memory  shall  dream  upon  it. 

"  Captain  or  Colonel,"  —  whatever  invocation 
Suit  our  hymn  the  best,  no  matter  for  thy  station,  — 
On  thy  grave  the  rain  shall  fall  from  the  eyes  of  a 

mighty  nation  ! 

Long  as  the  sun  doth  shine  upon  it 
Shall  glow  the  goodly  pine  upon  it, 
Long  as  the  stars  do  gleam  upon  it 
Shall  memory  come  to  dream  upon  it. 


A  DIRGE 

SLOWLY  tread,  and  gently  bear 
One  that  comes  across  the  wave, 

From  the  oppression  of  his  care, 
To  the  freedom  of  the  grave  ; 

From  the  merciless  disease, 
Wearing  body,  wasting  brain, 

To  the  rest  beneath  the  trees,  — 
The  forgetting  of  all  pain  ; 

From  the  delicate  eye  and  ear, 
To  the  rest  that  shall  not  see ; 

To  the  sleep  that  shall  not  hear, 
Nor  feel  the  world's  vulgarity. 

Bear  him,  in  his  leaden  shroud, 
In  his  pall  of  foreign  oak, 

To  the  uncomplaining  crowd, 
Where  ill  word  was  never  spoke. 
6 


A    D1HGE 

-Bear  him  from  life's  broken  sleep  — 
Dreams  of  pleasure,  dreams  of  pain, 

Hopes  that  tremble,  joys  that  weep, 
Loves  that  perish,  visions  vain  — 

To  the  beautiful  repose, 

Where  he  was  before  his  birth ; 
With  the  ruby,  with  the  rose, 

With  the  harvest,  earth  in  earth ! 

Bring  him  to  the  body's  rest, 

After  battle,  sorely  spent, 
Wounded,  but  a  weleome  guest 

In  the  Chief's  triumphal  tent. 


UPON  A  LADY  SINGING 

OFT  as  my  lady  sang  for  me 
That  song  of  the  lost  one  that  sleeps  by  the  se 
Of  the  grave  and  the  rock  and  the  cypress-tree 
Strange  was  the  pleasure  that  over  me  stole, 
For  't  was  made  of  old  sadness  that  lives  in  n 
soul. 

So  still  grew  my  heart  at  each  tender  word, 
That -the  pulse  in  my  bosom  scarcely  stirred, 
And  I  hardly  breathed,  but  only  heard : 
Where  was  I  ?  —  not  in  the  world  of  men, 
Until  she  awoke  me  with  silence  again. 

Like  the  smell  of  the  vine,  when  its  early  blooi 
Sprinkles  the  green  lane  with  sunny  perfume, 
Such  a  delicate  fragrance  filled  the  room : 
Whether  it  came  from  the  vine  without, 
Or  arose  from  her  presence,  I  dwell  in  doubt. 

Light  shadows  played  on  the  pictured  wall 
From  the  maples  that  fluttered  outside  the  hul 
8 


UPON  A    LADY  SINGING  9 

And  hindered  the  daylight,  —  yet,  ah !  not  all ; 
Too  little  for  that  all  the  forest  would  be, — 
Such  a  sunbeam  she  was  to  ine ! 

When  my  sense  returned,  as  the  song  was  o'er, 
I   fain  would  have  said  to  her,  "Sing  it  once 

more ; " 
But  soon  as  she  smiled  my  wish  I  forbore : 

Music  enough  in  her  look  1  found, 

And  the  hush  of  her  lip  seemed  sweet  as  the  sound. 


TO  FRANCESCA 

SING  Waller's  lay, 
44  Go,  lovely  rose,"  or  some  old  song, 

That  should  I  play 

Feebly,  thy  voice  may  make  me  strong 
With  loving  memories  cherished  long. 

Sing  u  Drink  to  me  " 
Or  u  Take,  oh,  take  those  lips  away," 

Some  strain  to  be 

When  I  am  gone  and  thou  art  gray, 
Remembered  of  a  happier  day, 

A  solemn  air, 
A  melody  not  loud  but  low, 

Suits  whitening  hair ; 
And  when  the' pulse  is  beating  slow 
The  music's  measure  should  move  so. 

The  song  most  sweet 
Is  that  which  lulls,  not  thrills  the  ear; 

So,  love,  repeat 

For  one  who  counteth  silence  dear 
That  which  to  silence  is  most  near. 
10 


SONG 

•  • ." . 
STRIKE  me  a  note  of  sweet  degrees  — 

Of  sweet  degrees  — 
Like  those  in  Jewry  heard  of  old ; 
My  love,  if  thou  wouldst  wholly  please, 

Hold  in  thy  hand  a  harp  of  gold, 
And  touch  the  strings  with  fingers  light, 
And  yet  with  strength  as  David  might  — 
As  David  might. 

Linger  not  long  in  songs  .of  love  — 

In  songs  of  love ; 
No  serenades  nor  wanton  airs 
The  deeper  soul  of  music  move ; 
Only  a  solemn  measure  bears 
With  rapture  that  shall  never  eease 
My  spirit  to  the  gates  of  peace  — 
The  gates  of  j>eae.e. 

So  feel  I  when  Franeesea  sings  — 
.  Franeesea  sings  — 

My  thoughts  mount  upward ;  I  am  dead 
11 


12  SONG 

To  every  sense  of  vulgar  things, 

And  on  celestial  highways  tread, 
With  prophets  of  the  olden  time  — 
Those  minstrel  kings,  the  men  sublime 
The  men  sublime. 


SONG  FOR  SETTING 

INSCRIBED  TO  HAUL  1'FLVKUKK,   MKLODLST 

On,  marry  me  to  music  soon! 

My  lover's  lay  kept  saying,  saying. 
Let  some  fine  harmonist  give  tune 

To  my  sweet  words  ;  and  I,  obeying, 

Laid  in  my  master's  hand  the  song 

For  him  to  grace  with  gentle  measure, 
And  give  it  life  to  linger  long 

In  maidens'  hearts,  a  joy  and  treasure. 

• 

And  now  my  song  seems  new  to  me 
That  all  day  long  1  'in  singing,  singing. 

And  all  the  summer  by  the  sea 

My  master's  measure  shall  be  ringing. 

Our  brook  shall  stay  to  list  the  lay 
That  Master  Karl  to  music  married, 

And  then  go  bounding  to  the  bay 

All  the  more  bright  for  having  tarried. 


13 


VIVA  LA  MUSTCA 

OUR  house,  that  long  in  darkness  dwelt, 
And  long  in  silence,  day  by  day, 

Before  the  mountain  snows  could  melt, 
While  yet  the  world  was  bleak  and  gray, 
Received  an  impulse  from  the  play 

Of  sudden  fingers  on  the  strings, 
That  made  the  new-born  meadows  gay 

With  magic  touch,  as  't  were  the  Spring's. 

The  melancholy  frog  no  more 
Shall  pipe  his  burden,  twanging  shrill ; 

The  oriole  gives  his  matins  o'er, 
No  song-bird  now  hath  any  skill ; 
Even  that  reproachful  whippoorwill 

That  stirred  such  memories  in  my  heart 
Is  hushed,  —  yet  comes,  a  listener  still, 

Nightly,  to  hear  Cordelia's  art. 

O  virgins  of  the  silver  lute  ! 
()  goddess  of  the  golden  chord ! 

And  thou  great  master  of  the  flute, 
Pan,  of  the  reeds  acknowledged  lord ! 
14 


VIVA   LA   MUSIC  A 

Troop  hither,  and  your  best  reward 
For  your  old  music,  in  the  days 

When  young  Apollo  was  your  king, 
Shall  be  to  peep  from  yonder  bays, 

And  hear  your  latest  scholar  sing. 


FIERI,  VALE! 

WHAT  god  it  was  I  cannot  say, 

But  one  there  was,  when  Jove  was  king, 

Who,  wandering  by  some  Grecian  bay, 

Picked  up  a  vacant  shell  that  lay 

Bleached  on  the  shore,  a  dry,  unsavory  thing. 

Nor  is  my  memory  well  informed 
(No  Lenipriere  's  at  hand  to  blab) 

What  tenant  had  this  mansion  warmed  ; 

Something  with  which  the  JEgean  swarmed, 
Something  of  lobster-kind,  perhaps,  or  crab. 

But  he,  this  cunning  child  of  heaven, 
Trimmed  it  according  to  his  wish, 

Crossed  it  witli  fibres,  —  three,  or  seven, 

Or,  as  Pausanias  thinks,  eleven,  — 

And  gave  a  language  to  the  poor,  dead  fish. 

At  once,  the  house,  which,  even  when  filled 

By  its  old  habitant,  was  dumb, 
Now,  as  the  immortal  artist  willed 
A  little  sea-Odeon  trilled, 

And  trembled  low  to  the  celestial  thumb. 
-?  1C 


P1ER1,    VALE!  17 

Enraptured  with  his  new  invention, 

Up  soared  he  to  the  blissful  seat, 
And,  having  caught  even  Jove's  attention, 
Yea,  calmed  a  family  dissension, 

Went  serenading  through  the  starry  street. 

With  us,  the  story  's  the  reverse : 

Our  souls  are  born  already  strung, 
But,  'twixt  the  cradle  and  the  hearse, 
Creeps  a  change  o'er  us  —  for  the  worse  f 
The  heart  hath  music  only  when  't  is  young. 

For  soon  there  comes  a  sordid  god, 

Who  snaps  the  precious  chords  of  sound, 

And  leaves  the  soul  an  empty  }xxl, 

A  yellow  husk,  —  a  dull,  hard  clod, 

A  faded  shell,  in  which  no  voice  is  found, 

Save  when  some  lx>ld  but  faltering  hand, 
That  dares  to  strike  the  tyrant  Time, 

Tries  his  first  impulse  to  command, 

And,  where  he  loftily  had  planned, 

Spends  the  last  ebbings  of  his  youth  in  rhyme. 


MUSICA  TRIONFANTE 

IN  the  storm,  in  the  smoke,  in  the  fight,  I  come 

To  bring  thee  strength  with  my  bugle  and  drum. 

My  name  is  Music,  —  and  when  the  bell 

Kings  for  the  dead  man,  I  rule  the  knell ; 

And   when   the   wrecked    mariner   hears   in   the 

blast 

The  fog-bell  sound,  —  it  was  I  who  passed. 
The  poets  have  told  you  how  I,  a  young  maid, 
Came  fresh  from  the  gods  to  the  myrtle  shade, 
And  thence  by  a  power  divine  I  stole 
To  where  the  waters  of  Mincius  roll ; 
Then  down  by  Clitumnus  and  Arno's  vale 
I  wandered,  passionate  and  pale, 
Until  I  found  me  at  sacred  Koine, 
Where  one  of  the  Medici  gave  me  a  home. 
Leo,  great  Leo,  he  worshiped  me, 
And  the  Vatican  stairs  for  my  foot  were  free ; 
And  now  I  am  come  to  your  glorious  land, 
Give  me  great  welcome  with  heart  and  hand. 
Kemember  Beethoven  —  I  gave  him  his  art  — 
And  Sebastian  Bach  and  superb  Mozart : 

18 


MUSIC  A    TRIONFANTE  19 

Join  them  in  my  worship;  and  when  the  swell 
Of  their  mighty  organs  hath  laid  a  spell 
On  every  sense,  and  thy  cares  are  drowned, 
Hear    the  voices    of    heaven    through   the    men 
heaven  hath  crowned. 


THE  INTELLECTUAL   REPUBLIC 

WRITTEN   FOK  THE  BOSTON    LYCEUM,  NOVEMBER    19,  1840 

ALREADY  graced  with  Bravery's  martial  crown, 
Our  young  republic  pants  for  fresh  renown  ; 
When  idle  Prowess  finds  no  scene  for  fame, 
Some  loftier  glory  beams,  in  Virtue's  name, 
Reposing  Valor  wantons  in  a  trance 
Of  calm  philosophy  or  gay  romance ; 
Refinement  blooms,  and  Wisdom  claims  the  wreath 
Which  silver  hairs,  not  scars,  arc  hid  beneath. 
In  every  state,  as  one  heroic  age. 
One  intellectual,  stands  on  history's  page. 
Now  maddening  nations  quit  their  tranquil  farms 
To  swell  the  fight  —  a  universe  in  arms! 
Now  Strife,  his  work  beginning  to  abhor, 
Bids  tired  Augustus  close  the  gates  of  War; 
Hushed  is  the  trump  —  a  milder  sway  succeeds, 
Now  peaceful  Georgics  wake  the  Mantuan  reeds. 
Such  days  beheld  the  Stoic  porch  arise, 
With  A  c  ad  em  i  a  —  garden  of  the  wise! 
Then  Epicurus  taught  his  gentle  train 
The  dulcet  musings  of  a  doubtful  brain, 

20 


THE  INTELLECTUA L  REPUBLIC         21 

And  Plato —  hoe-lipped  oracle  !  —  beguiled 
Ilia  loved  Lyceum,  listening  like  a  child. 

Thus  eras  change,  and  such  a  change  is  ours ; 
Rough  Mars  gives  way  to  April's  promised  flow 
ers  : 

Forth  springs  the  godlike  intellect,  unchained; 
Guard  it,  good  angels!  keep  it  unprofaned; 
Guide  it,  lest,  lured  by  offices  or  gold,  . 
Its  rights  he  bartered,  and  its  empire  sold. 
Now  books  accomplish  what  the  sword  began, 
Wide  spreads  the  rule  of  educated  man, 
No  let,  no  limit,  to  its  march  sublime, 
In  space,  but  oeeau —  iu  duration,  Time. 
So  swift  its  course,  some  prophet  may  contend 
Its  very  progress  bodes  a  s|>eedy  end : 
No!  like  Niagara's  changeless  current  driven, 
It  moves,  yet  stays,  eternal  as  the  heaven: 
That  mighty  torrent,  as  it  flows  to-day, 
Forever  Hows,  but  never  Hows  away  ; 
The  waves  you  gazed  at  yesterday  are  gone, 
Yet  the  same  restless  deluge  thunders  on. 

As   crumble  Custom's  mouldering  chains   with- 

rust, 

Power's  gilded  idol  tumbles  to  the  dust. 
Tradition  totters  from  her  cloudy  throne, 
And  all  the  impostures  of  the  past  are  known. 
Hardly  can  ice  lend  credence  to  the  tale 


22  Tins  INTELLECTUAL   IIE 

Of  their  long  woes  who  first  rent  error's  veil : 

O 

What  royal  spite,  what  eurses  from  the  Cluircli, 
Awed  the  pale  scholar  in  his  cloistered  search; 
How  many  from  themselves  their  visions  hid, 
Or  wandered  exiles,  outcast  and  forbid, 
Like  Dante,  scaling  with  dejected  tread 
A  tyrant's  stairs,  to  taste  his  hitter  bread  ! 
Think  how  Columbus  toiled,  through  years  of  pain, 
For  leave  to  try  the  secret  of  the  main; 
Yet    the    dream    dawned,    ami    gave,  in    spite    of 

Koine, 
Spain  a  new  world,  and  half  mankind  a  home. 

Unhappy  days!  when  they  who  read  the  stars 
Oft  only  saw  them  through  their  dungeon  bars  : 
Onr  tutored  minds  less  dangerous  ways  explore, — 
The  immortal  pioneers  have  gone  before. 
As  the  worn  bark,  no  more  to  storms  a  sport, 
•Just  makes  the  headland  of  her  opening  port, 
New  perils  then  awake  the  master's  dread, 
Anxious  he  walks,  and  eyes  the  frequent  lead  ; 
But,  if  the  pilot  come,  he  yields  the  helm, 
And  stands  a  subject  in  his  floating  realm, 
The  veteran's  nod  his  mariners  obey, 
And  wind  confiding  on  their  shoaly  way. 
Like  them  we  travel,  safely  gliding  by 
Opinion's  thousand  wrecks  that  round  us  lie. 


THE  INTELLECTUAL   REMUiLlC         23 

Not  tlius  wore  you,  ye  loader  spirits!  taught 
Your   pathway,    beaconed    through    the    wilds   of 

thought : 

For  you  no  Newton  yet  had  poised  the  world, 
No  sage   La  Place  heaven's  glittering  leaves  un 
furled, 

But  eaeh  suspicion  of  the  truth  was  born 
A.  dim  conjecture,  heralding  the  morn. 
Thus  from  his  height  bewildered  Kepler  strayed, 
To  toy  with  vain  Chaldea's  mystic  trade, 
And  sought  in  yon  blue  labyrinth  to  behold 
Man's  life  and  fortunes  lustrously  foretold. 
Hence  Danish  Tycho's  heavenly  city  swarmed 
AVith  crude  ideas  and  fantasies  deformed. 
Yet  sparely  blame  !  nor  be  extreme  to  mark 
Their  faulty  light,  when  all  was  else  —  how  dark  ! 

But  now  (he  Mind,  from  ancient  falsehood  woke, 
Abjures  old  Superstition's  rotten  yoke : 
No  wrathful  threat  in  Nature's  thunder  fears, 
No  fate  predicted  by  the  falling  spheres. 
All  childish  fables,  Fancy's  fond  pretense, 
Fade  from  the  cold  arithmetic  of  Sense: 
No  jocund  Fauns  through  copse  or  prairie  rove, 
No  dripping  Naiads  haunt  the  godless  grove; 
And  had  no  holier  new  Religion  given 
More  certain  tokens  of  a  purer  heaven, 


24         THE  INTELLECTUAL  REPUBLIC 

By  fount  and  rock  and  by  the  Bounding  shore, 
Nothing  were  left  to  dream  of  and  adore. 

Now  to  Truth's  courts,  a  never-faltering  throng, 
Thy  toreh,  O  Science !  lights  and  leads  along. 
No  sluggard  sons  this  age  of  labor  owns, 
In  earth's  great  workshop  solitary  drones, 
But  every  mind  the  general  task  must  share, 
Brave  the  long  toil,  and  mingle  in  the  care, 
In  love  with  Knowledge,  that  alone  can  bo 
Our  country's  hope  —  sole  safeguard  of  the  free. 


ADDRESS 

FOR  THE   OPENING  OF  THE   BOSTON  THEATRE, 
SEPTKMBKK    11,  18M 

WELCOME,  bright  eyes,  that  make  our  splendors 

pale : 

Ye  reverend  heads !  you  generous  hands  !  all  hail ! 
And  t h< H i,  proud  city !  to  thy  triumphs  past 
Add  this  to-night,  nor  let  it  l>e  thy  last ; 
Be  it  thy  glory  to  the  coming  age 
To  have  transmitted  no  adulterate  stage, 
That  aftertimes  may  count  this  beauteous  dome 
Dear  as  the  hearthstone  of  a  father's  home. 

Back,  airy  beings!  people  of  the  brain  ! 
Ye  kingly  shadows,  in  your  graves  remain  ! 
Stay,  you  weird  women  !  wait  the  fatal  bell ! 
Thou  master  of  the  charm,  suspend  the  spell ! 
Be  not  impatient  on  our  scene  to  burst ; 
You  shall  be  summoned,  but  your  herald  first. 

Souls  of  dead  bards  !  that  served  our  ancient  art, 
Poets !  who  largely  read  the  human  heart, 
Tell  us  why  man,  when  life  serenely  glides, 

25 


2t>  ADDRESS 

Loves  the  fierce  motion  that  disturbs  the  tides ! 
What  god  impels  him,  now  his  laud  is  free, 
To  play  the  hero  that  he  cannot  be? 
What  strong  illusion,  native  in  his  breast, 
Made  action  charm  him  in  his  day  of  rest? 

When  arms  and  arsenals  are  idle  shows, 
And  navies  playthings  for  the  world's  repose, 
The,  heart,  like  Xcmi,  never  known  to  stir, 
Becomes  a  mirror  of  the  things  that  were  : 
Then  grows  the  wish,  and  then  is  given  the  power, 
To  be  and  feel  beyond  Life's  little  hour. 
The  soldier  /Eschylus,  at  such  a  time, 
From  the  dark  realm  of  passion  and  of  crime, 
Called  back  those  mighty  shades  to  walk  the  earth, 
And  made  them  deathless  by  a  second  birth. 
When  all  rapt  Athens,  in  that  early  day. 
Sat  in  the  sunshine,  at  the  solemn  play ; 
When  to  the  music  of  a  single  flute 
The  verse  was  uttered  that  for  us  is  mute ; 
When  through  the  orchestra,  with  slow  advance, 
The  Dorian  measure  led  the  choral  dance,  — 
Cold  was  that  soul  — oh!  dead  as  Lethe's  fen  — 
That  did  not  light  at  Salamis  again. 

But  long  ere  this,  when  Bacchus  was  divine, 
At  the  mad  vintage,  where  the  new-made  wine 


A  DDK  ESS  27 

Fired  the  rude  revellers,  the  learned  say 
First  rose  tli'  uncouth  resemblance  of  a  play : 
What  time  Arion  of  the  Lesbian  isle 
To  the  wild  chorus  gave  a  graver  style. 
The  years  are  distant,  and  the  light  is  dim, 
Yet  hark  !  the  echo  of  a  tragic;  hymn  : 
Lo  !  the  fell  Mo'iiads  with  their  visage  smeared, 
And  men  made  satyrs  by  the  mask  and  beard. 

Such    rites  have,  been  where   now  this  temple 

stands : 

The  savage  dramas  of  the  Indian  bands; 
Near  the  blue  lake  and  by  the  midnight  fire, 
See  the  red  artist  and  the  naked  choir ! 
When  the  great  Sachem  with  his  IVquod  court 
After  the  fray  assembled  at  the  sport-— 
See  !  —  't  was  but  yesterday  —  their  dance  describe 
The  hunt,  the  war,  the  triumph  of  their  tribe : 
These  too  were  actors,  but  their  show  is  done ; 
Their  last  spectator  was  the  setting  sun. 

In  Charles's  days,  when  tragedy  was  mean, 
Once  the  light  Muse  went  slipshod  on  the  scene; 
Was  ( 'harlcs  alone  at  fault  ?  historian,  tell  - — 
We  love  the  sturdy  Puritan  too  well ; 
What    though   the   drama   drooped    beneath   his 
ban, 


28      w  ADDRESS 

Spite  of  the  bigot  we  revere  the  man ; 
What  though  he  left  polluted  arts  behind, 
He  brought  his  sword,  his  Bible,  and  his  mind. 

Something  of  that  austerity  be  yours, 
Since  Folly  loves  what  easy  Taste  endures ; 
Let  our  purged  altar  and  its  blameless  priest 
Honor  the  three-hilled  city  of  the  East ! 
That  to  the  wise  our  theatre  may  seem 
A  nobler  school,  a  loftier  Academe ! 
And  Shakespeare's  mind,  transplanted  to  the  shore 
Whose  rocks  are  gold,  whose  sands  are  shining  ore, 
(Or  far  as  Freedom's  onward  march  may  draw 
Arts  without  arms,  and  without  conquest,  Law), 
A  sacred  well !  from  whose  o'erflowing  brink 
Each  generation  in  its  turn  may  drink  ; 
So  shall  your  children  thank  you,  not  alone 
For  wealth  of  empire  grasping  every  zone, 
Lint  write  these  words  on  Memory's  grateful  page, 
Sons  of  the  L^ilgrims !  you  redeemed  our  stage. 


ADDRESS 

TO  THE   ASSEMBLY   AT  THK   OPENING   OP  THE   PLAYERS* 
CLUB   IN   NEW   YOKK,    DECEMBER  31,1888 

The  speaker  advances  with  a  chaplet  bearing  a  label  an  which  u 
written  the  name  of  BOOTH 

LET  us  crown  Edwin.     Though  he  wear 
The  crown  already  of  his  Art, 
Grateful  Manhattan's  mighty  mart 

May  well  a  civic  garland  spare 
For  one  who  hath  deserved  so  well 

Of  his  whole  country,  carrying  far 
And  wide  the  great  enchanter's  spell, 

Under  whose  thralldom  we  all  are. 
Yet  not  alone  his  laurel  twine 

With  civil  oak.     The  }>oet's  bays 
And  critic's  ivy  should  combine 

Besides,  to  speak  our  actor's  praise. 
For  he  hath  educated  men, 

(Who  knew  none  other  lore  but  this), 
Making  past  history  live  again,  — 

A  lofty  mark  which  many  miss ! 
29 


30  ADDRESS 

Through  him  those  rough  lads  of  the  West 
That  never  slept  beneath  a. roof, 
Men  from  the  mountains,  tempest-proof, 
Gold-hunters,  rugged  and  untaught, 

Feel  Romeo's  passion  fill  their  breast, 
Or  Hamlet's  wisdom  swell  their  thought. 

O 

Even  the  great  Marlborough,  we  are  told, 

More  history  learned  from  Shakespeare's  page 
Then  llolinshed's;  nor  seems  it  hold 

To  guess  that  many  a  sapient  sage, 
As  well  as  soldier,  may  have  known 

More  of  mankind  from  gifted  bards 
Than  chroniclers,  though  he  had  grown 

Gray  o'er  the  schoolroom's  history-cards. 

TO   TIIK    I'LAYRKS 

Players !  I  ask  your  bonisou  for  this  wreath  : 
Oh,  read  the  name  that  here  is  writ  beneath 
Approvingly,  as  of  all  words  the  one 
Most  fit  to  glorify  the  sire  and  son  ! 
Perehanee  the  coming  centuries  will  say, 
There  was  a  home  by  Massachusetts  Bay, 
Whence  children  came  to  keep  that  flame  alive 
Which  Edwin  kindled,  and  may  long  survive 
Till  each  America,  both  North  and  South, 
Shall  speak  him  honor  with  a  single  mouth, 


ADDRESS  31 

And  England's  language  from  the  Arctic  main 
To  San  Kosario's  watch-tower  hold  one  reign. 

TO   MH.    BOOTH 

Tragedian,  teacher,  take  the  crown 

Where  love  her  myrtle  with  our  laurel  blends : 
These  portals  open  to  large  troops  of  friends, 

Hut  I  behold,  to  cherish  thy  renown, 

A  line,  aye  stretching,  as  in  Banquo's  glass, 
Of  thousands  coming  after  these  do  pass. 


PROEM 

DOWN  by  the  sea,  beside  the  pilgrim  dimes, 

Down  by  the  low  strand  where  the  waves  have 

strife, 
We  wove  ourselves  a  little  roll  of  runes, 

To  lull  our  spirits  from  the  jar  of  life : 
Sometimes  the  north-wind  cut  us  like  a  knife, 

Sometimes  wild  Euros  blinded  us  with  spray, 
But  always  Ocean  with  his  changing  tunes 

Made  measure  with  each  cadence  of  our  lay. 


And  one  day,  wandering  vacant  on  the  strand, 
A  little  child,  whose  name  shall  yet  be  known, 

Culling  strange  forms  and  pebbles  from  the  sand, 
Put  in  my  hand  a  wonderful  red  stone ;  — 

A  jasper  fragment  of  some  ancient  rock, 

Shaped   like   the   Sphinx,  expression   just  the 

same,  — 

A  Nubian  face,  as  'twere  a  half -hewn  block 
Before  the  finish  of  the  master  came. 
32 


PROEM  33 

The  heavy  head-gear,  with  its  fold  and  fall, 
Recalling  Dante's  hood  ;  the  drowsy  lid, 

As  if  weighed  down  with  frequent  funeral, 
Dead  to  the  presence  as  a  pyramid ; 

A  look  of  quietude,  that  seemed  to  say, 

"Labor  no  more  !  the  time  is  come  for  rest ; 

Thy  life  is  with  past  people  and  the  day 
Slosy  closing-  on  thy  vision  in  the  west. 

'**  Of  labors  profitless  in  days  gone  by 

There  lives  no  record  ;  nor  shall  there  be  end 

Of  toils  for  men  hereafter.     Only  I 

Have  done  with  labor  and  would  be  thy  friend," 

"  Labor  no  more !  "     (The  jasper  head  to  me 

Spoke  in  the  pauses  of  the  noisy  night.) 
"Labor   no   more!      Thou    hear'st    the    restless 

sea: 

The  world's  great  work  is  doing,  with  might,  with 
might ! 

"  Ships  pass  and  vanish,  laden  with  desire, 
Carrying  to  every  clime  their  trade  and  cares, 

And    black    sea -chariots   with    their   freight    of 

fire 
The  breath  of  water  o'er  the  water  bears : 


34  PKOEM 

"  The  mowers  in  the  marsh,  with  seythe  and  wains, 

Their  aftermath  are  rescuing  from  the  tide, 
And  the  moss-gatherers  from  the  autumn  rains 

Their  oeean-harvest  nhiler  canvas  hide  : 

44  And  boys  are  in  the  woods  for  nuts  and  birds,  — 
Plenty  of  people  doing  earthly  things ! 

But  for  thyself,  the  wisest  of  all  words 

Is  *  Work  no  longer. '     'T  is  the  Sphinx  that 

sings.'* 


PILGRIM'S   ISLE 

TiiKitK  fell  a  charm  upon  the  deep, 
A  spell  upon  the  silent  shore; 

The  boats,  like  lily-pads  asleep, 
Lay  round  me  upon  ocean's  floor. 

0  weary  world  of  noise  and  strife, 
O  cities,  full  of  gold  and  guile, 

How  small  a  part  ye  make  of  life 
To  one  that  walks  on  Pilgrim'*  Isle 

1  watched  the  Gurnet's  double  star, 

Like  Jove  and  Venus  side  by  side, 
And  on  the  smooth  waves  gleaming  far 
Beheld  its  long  reflection  ride. 

My  days  of  youth  are  almost  flown, 
And  yet,  upon  a  night  like  this, 

Love  v.  ill  not  let  my  heart  alone ; 

Back  comes  the  well-remembered  bliss. 

Oft  in  thy  golden  locks  a  gleam 
Of  other  das  illumes  m    brain, 


86  PILGRIM'S  ISLE 

And  in  thy  hand's  soft  touch  I  seem 
To  feel  my  boyhood  born  again. 

Ah,  dearest,  all  will  soon  be  o'er ! 

I  see  my  sunset  in  thy  smile ; 
It  lingers  longest  on  the  shore, 

Th'  enchanted  shore  oi  Pilgrim's  Isle. 


DOWN  BY  THE  SHORE  IN  DECEMBER 

THEY  come  and  go  ;  their  shadows  pass 
Beyond  the  bound  where  blue  and  brine 

Kiss,  and  the  orient  clouds  amass 
White  piles  above  the  horizon's  line. 

Some  of  yon  vessels  will  return, 

And  some  shall  never  touch  their  port ! 

Full  many  hearts  that  in  them  burn 
Will  find  life's  voyage  all  too  short 

Inconstant  Ocean  !  who  canst  look 

•  • '.- ' 

So  calm,  with  murder  in  thy  frown, 
For  whom  those  meadows  I  forsook, 
And  all  the  allurements  of  the  town, 

I  did  not  feel,  till  here  I  dwelt, 

How  terrible  the  mighty  main, 
Nor  think  how  bright  Orion's  belt 

Gleams  nightly  on  thy  drowned  and  slain. 

Oh,  give  me  back  my  Wayland  meads, 
Where  Sudbury's  loitering  eddies  glide, 
37 


38     DOWN  BY   TUB  SHORK  IN  DEC  EM  HER 

And  one  long  line  of  lilies  leads 

My  skiff  to  Concord's  harmless  tide ! 

There  let  me  with  protecting  woods 

Shield  my  reposing*  age,  afar 
From  the  wild  fury  of  the  floods, 

To  watch  in  peace  that  evening  star. 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  DEEP 

NEVKK  hath  navigator  found 

A  nook  where  mortals  have  not  been ; 
The  Hoods  are  full,  —  all  seas  abound 

With  myriads  of  our  kin  ; 
And  more  humanity  lies  hidden 

Fathomless  leagues  below  the  surge, 
Than  o'er  its  surface,  tempest-ridden, 

Their  peopled  navies  urge. 

Becalmed  at  mid  night,  on  the  deep, 

Soon  as  our  second  watch  was  set, 
On  the  damp  deck  I  dropped  asleep, 

All  troubles  to  forget ; 
But  iii  my  brain,  that  would  not  slumber, 

Loved  forms  and  lovely  faces  thronged, 
Friends  past  my  power  to  name  or  number, 

And  some  to  heaven  belonged. 

But  one  sweet  shape,  of  beauty  strange, 
Broke  my  bright  vision  with  a  kiss  ; 

I  started,  —  ah  !  the  bitter  change, 
From  blessed  dreams  to  this ! 


40  THE  PEOPLE   OF  THE  DEEP 

For*  ah  !  how  silent,  dark,  and  lonely 
These  melancholy  deserts  are  ; 

No  life,  save  yon  tired  helmsman  only, 
Nor  light,  save  here  and  there  a  star. 

The  drowsy  mariner's  dull  tread 

Is  the  sole  sound  that  wakes  mine  ears ; 
How  hushed  !  how  desolate  and  dead 

Creation's  void  appears ! 
44  Thou  (liiml),  them  lonely,  lonely  oeean  !  " 

Chilled  by  my  fancies,  I  began, — 
44  Fearful  in  stillness  as  in  motion, 
Thou  art  no  place  for  man ! 

44  Earth's  wildernesses,  everywhere, 

Teem  with  some  records  of  our  race  ; 
Even  waste  I'aleiKjuu'H  fragments  bear 

Life's  annals  on  their  face. 
But  you,  ye  solitary  waters! 

What  memories  can  ye  recall? 
Better  to  speak  of  crime  and  slaughters 

Than  tell  no  tale  at  all. 

44  Hark!  to  that  heavy-breathing  sound, 
That  seems  the  moaning  of  the  sea, 
Or  of  some  whale  on  whose  own  ground 
Rude  trespassers  are  we. 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  DEEP  41 

Tliis  is  Leviathan's  dominion, 

Where  man  is  rash  to  stray ; 
Ah,  wight  1  borrow  but  thy  pinion, 

Swift  sea-gull!  for  a  day, 

"  This  element,  for  monsters  made, 

Full  swiftly  would  I  leave  behind, 
And  friends  amid  the  forest  shade 

In  gentler  creatures  Hud." 
Thus  musing,  sleep  again  stole  o'er  me, 

And  voices,  in  my  second  dream, 
Came  from  a  throng  which  rose  before  me,  — 

"  I  low  falsely  dost  thou  deem  ! 

44  Behold  !  thy  brethren  fill  the  waves  ; 
.     All  the  great  gulfs  are  amply  stored." 
And,  lo !  from  forth  their  coral  caves 

The  ocean  dwellers  poured. 
"  We  are  the  people  of  the  waters !  " 

Faintly  they  gurgled  in  mine  ear; 
u  Fathers  and  mothers,  sons  and  daughters, 
Old  age  and  youth  are  here." 

The  scaly  multitudes  that  swarm 

In  the  green  shelter  of  the  bay, 
Chased  by  the  fury  of  the  storm, 

Less  numerous  were  than  they. 


42  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  DEEP 

They  -came  in  armies,  thickly  crowding, 

Fleshless  and  dripping,  blenched  and  bare  ; 

Sea-plants  their  bony  bosoms  shrouding, 
Sands  glistening  in  their  hair. 

"  See !  see !  "  they  cried,  "  what  legions  strew 

The  sparkling  pavement  of  the  brine ! 
Our  ancient  universe  below 

Is  populous  as  thine. 
But  wheresoever  war's  banners  flying 

Have  brought  the  fleets  of  England's  host, 
There,  foe  by  foe,  together  lying, 

Our  nations  cluster  most. 

"  Many  and  large  our  cities  are, 

Wide  scattered  over  ocean's  floor ; 
Some  of  us  dwell  near  Trafalgar, 

And  some  at  Elsinore. 
Some  that  were  enemies,  now  brothers, 

Linger  about  the  immortal  isle 
Of  Grecian  Salamis,  and  others 

llest  in  the  freshness  of  the  Nile.'* 

"  Home  !  home  !  poor  spectres,"  I  replied, 
"  Till  the  seas  dry  at  trump  of  doom ; 
Earth  and  her  waters,  far  and  wide, 
Are  only  one  huge  tomb. 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  DEEP  43 

Till  now  I  thought  the  main's  chief  treasure 

Was  pearls  and  heaps  of  jewels  rare ; 
But,  ah  !  what  wealth,  beyond  all  measure, 

In  mine  own  sha]>e  lies  there  !  " 

Then,  musing  on  the  valor,  worth, 

And  beauty  dwelling  in  the  deep, 
And  the  mean  brood  that  God's  good  earth 

In  their  possession  keep, 
I  almost  wished  my  parting  minute 

Might  find  me  somewhere  on  the  wave, 
That  I  might  join  the  brave  within  it, 

And  no  man  dig  iny  grave. 


MARY   BOOTH 

WHAT  shall  we  do  now,  Mary  being  dead, 
Or  say  or  write  that  shall  express  the  half  ? 

What  can  we  do  but  pillow  that  fair  head, 
And  let  the  Sprirg-time  write  her  epitaph  ?  — 

As  it  will  soon,  in  snowdrop,  violet, 

Wind-flower  and  columbine  and  maiden's  tear ; 
Each  letter  of  that  pretty  alphabet, 

That  spells -in  flowers  the  pageant  of  the  year. 

She  was  a  maiden  for  a  man  to  love ; 

She  was  a  woman  for  a  husband's  life ; 
One  that  has  learned  to  value,  far  above 

The  name  of  love,  the  sacred  name  of  wife. 

Her  little  life-dream,  rounded -so  with  sleep, 
Had  all  there  is  of  life,  except  gray  hairs, — 

Hope,  love,  trust,  passion  and  devotion  deep; 
And  that  mysterious  tie  a  Mother  bears. 


41 


MARY  BOOTH  45 

She  hath  fulfilled  her  promise  and  hath  passed ; 

Set  her  down  gently  at  the  iron  door ! 
Eyes  look  on  that  loved  image  for  the  last : 

Now  cover  it  in  earth,  —  her  earth  no  more. 


HER  EPITAPH 

THE  handful  here,  that  once  was  Mary's  earth, 
Held,  while  it  breathed,  so  beautiful  a  soul, 

That,  when  she  died,  all  recognized  her  birth, 
And  had  their  sorrow  in  serene  control. 

"  Not  here  !  not  here  !  "  to  every  mourner's  heart 
The  wintry  wind  seemed  whispering  round  her 
bier ; 

And  when  the  tomb-door  opened,  with  a  start 
We  heard  it  echoed  from  within,  —  u  Not  here  !  " 

Shouldst   thou,    sad    pilgrim,    who    mayst    hither 
pass, 

Note  in  these  flowers  a  delicater  hue, 
Should  spring  come  earlier  to  this  hallowed  grass, 

Or  the  bee  later  linger  on  the  dew, — 

Know  that  her  spirit  to  her  body  lent 

Such  sweetness,  grace,  as  only  goodness  can ; 
That  even  her  dust,  and  this  her  monument, 

Have- yet  a  spell  to  stay  one  lonely  man, — 
40 


HER  EPITAPH  47 

Lonely  through  life,  but  looking  for  the  clay 
When  what  is  mortal  of  himself  shall  sleep, 

When  human  passion  shall  have  passed  away, 
And  Love  no  longer  be  a  thing  to  weep. 


LOUISA'S  GRAVE 

PKKI*  in  the  city's  noisy  heart 

A  sacred  spot  there  lies  ; 
Amid  the  tumult,  yet  apart, 

And  shut  from  worldly  eyes. 

There,  just  beyond  the  chapel  shade, 
Hid  in  a  elovered  mound, 

Enough  of  innocence  is  laid 
To  sanctify  the  ground. 

Born,  as  the  violets  are,  in  May, 
With  song  of  birds  she  came, 
And  when  she  sighed  her  soul  away, 
X.  The  season  was 'the  same. 

It  seemed  in  heaven  benignly  meant 

To  give  this  virgin  birth 
tVhen  all  things  beautiful  are  sent 

To  bless  the  budding  earth. 

But  if  her  birth  befitted  then 
The  spring-time  and  the  bloom, 

48 


•      LOUISA'S   GHAV'E  49 

Why,  when  that  gladness  name  again, 
Why  went  she  to  the  tomb? 

Oh,  let  not  impious  grief  accuse 

Kind  Nature  of  a  wrong  ! 
Her  form  in  flowers  and  fragrant  dews 

Shall  be  exhaled  ere  long. 

Her  beauty  was  akin  to  them; 

Their  elements  combined 
To  shape  the  young,  consummate  stem, 

Whose  blossom  was  her  mind. 

And  now  the  blossom  is  with  God  ; 

Soon  shall  the  sun  and  showers 
Wake  from  the  slumber  of  the  sod 

All  that  was  ever  ours. 

No  weary  winter's  frozen  sleep, 

Under  the  torpid  snows, 
Her  undeeaying  frame  can  keep 

In  the  clay's  cold  repose  ; 

For  all  her  mortal  part  shall  melt, 

In  other  forms  to  rise, 
Before  her  spirit  shall  have  dwelt 

One  summer  in  the  skies. 


TO  A   YOUNG  GIRL   DYING 

WITH    A    <iIFT    OF    FRESH  .  PALM-LEA  YKH 

THIS  is  Palm  Sunday  :  mindful  of  the  day, 
I  bring  palm  branches,  found  upon  my  way : 
But  these  will  wither ;  thine  shall  never  die,  - — 
The  saered  palms  tliou  bearest  to  the  sky! 
Dear  little  saint,  though  but  a  child  in  years, 
Older  in  wisdom  than  my  gray  compeers ! 
II V  doubt  and  tremble,  —  w,  with  bated  breath, 
Talk  of  this  mystery  of  life  and  death  : 
Thou,  strong  in  faith,  art  gifted  to  conceive 
Beyond  thy  years,  and  teach  us  to  believe! 

Then  take  my  palms,  triumphal,  to  thy  home, 
Gentle  white  palmer,  never  more  to  roam ! 
Only,  sweet  sister,  give  me,  ere  thou  go'st, 
Thy  benediction,  —  for  my  love  thou  know'st! 
We,    too,    are    pilgrims,    traveling    towards    the 

shrine: 
Pray  that  our  pilgrimage  may  end  like  thine ! 

50 


THE    SCULPTOR'S   FUNERAL 

AMID  tho  aisle,  apart,  there  stood 

A  mourner  like  the  rest ; 
And  while  the  solemn  rites  were  said, 
lie  fashioned  into  verse  his  mood 

That  would  not  be  repressed. 

Why  did  they  bring  him  home, 
Bright  jewel  set  in  lead  ? 

Oh,  bear  the  sculptor  back  to  Rome, 
And  lay  him  with  the  mighty  dead, — 

With  AdonaVs,  and  the  rest 
Of  all  the  young  and  good  and  fair, 

That  drew  the  milk  of  English  breast, 
And  their  last  sigh  in  Latian  air ! 

Lay  him  with  Raphael,  unto  whom 

Was  granted  Rome's  most  lasting  tomb  ; 
For  many  a  lustre,  many  an  tuon, 
lie  might  sleep  well  in  the  Pantheon, 

Deep  in  the  sacred  city's  womb, 

The  smoke  and  splendor  and  the  stir  of  Rome, 
51 


f>2  THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUNERAL 

Lay  him  'neath  Diocletian's  dome, 
Blessed  Saint  Mary  of  the  Angels, 
Near  to  that  house  in  which  he  dwelt,  — 

Iloffse  that  to  many  seemed  a  home, 
So  mueh  with  him  they  loved  and  felt. 

We  were  his  guests  a  hundred  times; 
We  loved  him  for  his  genial  ways ; 

lie  gave  me  credit  for  my  rhymes, 
And  made  me  blush  with  praise. 

All !  there  l>e  many  histories 

That  no  historian  writes, 
And  friendship  hath  its  mysteries 

And  consecrated  nights; 
Amid  the  Imsy  days  of  pain, 
Wear  of  hand,  and  tear  of  brain, 
Weary  midnight,  weary  morn, 
Years  of  struggle  paid  with  scorn  ; — 

Yet  oft  amid  all  this  despair, 
Long  rambles  in  the  autumn  days 
O'er  Appiau  or  Flaminian  Ways, 

Bright  moments  snatched  from  care, 
When  loose  as  buffaloes  on  the  wild  Cainpagiia 

We  roved  and  dined  on  crust  and  curds, 

Olives,  thin  wine,  and  thinner  birds, 
And  woke  the  echoes  of  divine  Komagna ; 

And  then  returning  late, 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUNE11AL  53 

After  long  knocking  at  the  Lateran  gate, 
•  Suppers  and  nights  of  gods ;  and  then 
Mornings  that  made  us  new-born  men  ; 
Hare  nights  at  the  Minerva  tavern. 
With  Orvieto  from  the  Cardinal's  cavern ; 
Free  nights,  but  fearless  and  without  reproof, — 
For  Bayard's  word  ruled  u  jjM/s  roof. 

'O  Rome  !  what  memories  awake, 

When  Crawford's  nan  e  is  said, 
Of  days  and  friends  for  whose  dear  sake 
That  path  of  Hades  unto  me 

Will  have  no  more  of  dread 
Than  his  own  Orpheus  felt,  seeking  Eurydice ! 

O  Crawford  !  husband,  father,  brother 

Are  in  that  name,  that  little  word ! 
Let  me  no  more  my  sorrow  smother ; 

Grief  stirs  me,  and  I  must  be  stirred. 

O  Death,  tliou  teacher  true  and  rough ! 

Full  oft  I  fear  that  we  have  erred, 
And  have  not  loved  enough  ; 
Kut  oh,  ye  friends,  this  side  of  Acheron, 

Who  cling  to  me  to-day, 
I  shall  not  know  my  love  till  ye  are  gone 
And  I  am  gray  ! 


54  THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUNERAL 

Fair  women  with  your  loving  eyes, 
Old  men  that  once  my  footsteps  led, 

Sweet  children,  —  much  as  all  I  prize, 
Until  the  sacred  dust  of  death  be  shed 
Upon  each  dear  and  venerable  head, 
1  cannot  love  you  as  I  love  the  dead ! 

But  now,  the  natural  man  being  sown, 
We  can  'more  lucidly  behold 
The  spiritual  one ; 

For  we,  till  time  shall  end, 
Full  visibly  shall  see  our  friend 
In  all  his  hand  did  mould,  — 
That  worn  and  patient  hand  that  lies  so  cold ! 

When  on  some  blessed  studious  day 
To  my  loved  library  I  wend  my  way, 
Amid  the  forms  that  give  the  Gallery  grace 
His  thought  in  that  pale  poet  I  shall  trace, — 
Keen  Orpheus,  with  his  eyes 
Fixc'l  deep  in  ruddy  hell, 
Seeking  amid  those  lurid  skies 
The  wife  he  loved  so  well,  — 
And  feel  that  still  therein  I  see 
All  that  was  in  my  Master's  thought, 
And,  in  that  constant  hand  wherewith  he  wrought, 
The  eternal  type  of  constancy. 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUNERAL  55 

Thou  marble  husband !  might  there  be 
More  of  flesh  and  blood  like  thee ! 

Or  if,  in  Music's  festive  hall, 
I  come  to  cheat  me  of  my  care, 

Amid  the  swell,  the  dying  fall, 
His  genius  greets  me  there. 
O  man  of  bronze!  thy  solemn  air-*- 

Best  soother  of  a  troubled  brain  — 

Floods  me  with  memories,  and  again 

As  thou  stand'st  visibly  to  men, 
Beloved  musician  !  so  once  more 
Crawford  comes  back  that  did  thy  form  restore. 


Well,  —  rcfjuicscat !  let  him  pass ! 

Good  mourners,  go  your  several  ways ! 
lie  needs  no  further  rite,  nor  mass, 

Nor  eulogy,  who  best  could  praise 
Himself  in  marble  and  in  brass; 

Yet  his  best  monument  did  raise, 
Not  in  those  perishable  things 

That  men  eternal  deem,  — 

The  pride  of  palaces  and  kings,  — 
But  in  such  works  as  must  avail  him  there, 


56  THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUN  Eli  AL 

With  Him  who,  from  the  extreme 

Love  that  was  in  his  breast, 
Said,  "  Come,  all  ye  that  heavy  burdens  bear, 
And  I  will  give  you  rest !  " 


"INTO  THE  NOISELESS  COUNTRY" 

INTO  the  noiseless  country  Annie  went, 
Among  the  silent  people  where  no  sound 

Of  wheel  or  voiee  or  implement  —  no  roar 
Of  wind  or  billow  moves  the  tranquil  air: 

And  oft  at  midnight  when  my  strength  is  spent 

And  day's  delirium  in  the  lull  is  drowned 
Of  deepening  darkness,  as  I  kneel  before 

Her  palm  and  cross,  comes  to  my  soul  this  prayer, 
That  partly  brings  me  back  to  my  content, 

"Oh,   that    hushed   forest!  —  soon    may   I   be 
there !  " 

57 


STEUART'S  BURIAL 

THE  bier  is  ready  ami  the  mourners  wait, 
The  funeral  car  stands  open  at  the  gate. 
Bring  down  our  brother  ;  bear  him  gently,  too ; 
So,  friends,  he  always  bore  himself  with  you. 
Down  the  sad. staircase,  from  the  darkened  room, 
For  the  first  time,  he  comes  in  silent  gloom. 
Who  ever  left  this  hospitable  door 
Without  his  smile  and  warm  u  good-by,"  before? 
Now  we  for  him  the  parting  word  must  say 
To  the  mute  threshold  whence  we  bear  his  clay. 


The  slow  procession  lags  upon  the  road,  — 
'T  is  heavy  hearts  that  make  the  heavy  load  ; 
And  all  too  brightly  glares  the  burning  noon 
On  the  dark  pageant  —  be  it  ended  soon! 
The  quail  is  piping  and  the  locust  sings,  — 
O  grief,  thy  contrast  with  these  joyful  things ! 
What  pain  to  see,  amid  our  task  of  woe, 
The  laughing  river  keep  its  wonted  flow ! 
His  hawthorns  there,  his  proudly  waving  corn, 
And  all  so  flourishing  —  and  so  forlorn  ! 

58 


STEUARTS  BURIAL  59 

His  new-built  cottage,  too,  so  fairly  planned, 
Whose  chimney  ne'er  shall  smoke  at  his  command. 

Two  sounds  were  heard,  that  on  the  spirit  fell 
With  sternest  moral:  one  the  passing  bell ! 
The  other  told  the  history  of  the  hour  — 
Life's  fleeting  triumph,  mortal  pride  and  power. 
Two  trains  there  met :  the  iron-sinewed  horse 
And  the  black  hearse  —  the  engine  and  the  corse! 
Haste  on  your  track,  you  fiery-winged  steed! 
I  hate  your  presence  and  approve  your  speed ; 
Fly !  with  your  eager  freight  of  breathing  men, 
And  leave  these  mourners  to  their  march  again ! 
Swift  as  my  wish,  they  broke  their  slight  delay, 
And  life  and  death  pursued  their  separate  way. 

The  solemn  service  in  the  church  was  held, 
Bringing  strange  comfort  as  the  anthem  swelled, 
And  back  we  bore  him  to  his  long  repose, 
Where  his  great  elm  its  evening  shadow  throws, — 
A  sacred  spot !     There  often  he  hath  stood, 
Showed  us  his  harvests  and  pronounced  them  good ; 
And  we  may  stand,  with  eyes  no  longer  dim, 
To  watch  new  harvests  and  remember  him. 

Pence  to  thee,  Steuart !  —  and  to  us !  The  All- Wise 
Would  ne'er  have  found  thee  readier  for  the  skies : 


GO  STKUAItrs.  BURIAL 

In  his  large  love  lie  kindly  waits  the  beat, 

The  fittest  mooil,  to  summon  every  guest ; 

So  in  his  prime  our  dear  companion  went, 

When  the  young  soul  is  easy  to  repent ; 

No  long  purgation  shall  he  now  require 

In  Maek  remorse,  in  penitential  lire  ; 

From  what  few  frailties  might  have  stained  his  morn 

Our  tears  may  wash  him  pure  as  he  was  born. 


EPITAPH  UPON  MY  FKIKND,  DAVID   HTKUAKT   UOHKHTSON 
FKOM    HIS    CiltAVKSTONK    AT    LANTASTKK 

Here  Steuart  sleeps  ;  and  should  some  brother  Scot 
Wander  this  way,  and  pause  upon  the  spot, 
lie  need  not  ask,  now  life's  poor  show  is  o'er, 
What  arms  he  carried,  or  what  plaid  he  wore : 
So  small  the  value  of  illustrious  birth, 
Brought  to  this  solemn,  last  assay  of  earth ! 
Yet,  unreproved,  his  epitaph  might  say 
A  royal  soul  was  wrapt  in  Steuart's  clay, 
And  generous  actions  consecrate  his  mound, 
More  than  all  titles,  though  of  kingly  sound. 


ON  THE   DEATH  OF   DANIEL  WEBSTER 

TWENTY-FOURTH    OF   OCTOHEK,   1KM 

COMES  there  a  frigate  home?  what  mighty  bark 
Returns  with  torn,  but  still  triumphant  sails  ? 

Such  peals  awake  the  wondering  Sabbath  —  hark ! 
How  the  dread  echoes  die  among  the  vales ! 

What  ails  the  morning,  that  the  misty  sim 
Looks  wan  and  troubled  in  the  autumn  air? 

Dark  over  Marshtield  !  —  't  was  the  minute  gun  : 
God !   has  it  come  that  we  foreboded  there  ? 

The  woods  at  midnight  heard  an  angel's  tread ; 

The  sere  leaves  rustled  in  his  withering  breath; 
The  night  was  beautiful  with  stars ;  we  said, 

"  This  is  the  harvest  moon,'*  —  't  was  thine,  O 
Death! 

Gone,  then,  the  splendor  of  October's  day  ! 

A  single  night,  without  the  aid  of  frost, 
Has  turned  the  gold  and  crimson  into  gray, 

And  the  world's  glory,  with  our  own,  is  lost. 
01 


6*2   ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DANIEL    \VRKST  RR. 

A  little  while,  and  we  rode  forth  to  greet 
His  coming  with  glad  music,  and  his  eye 

Drew  many  captives,  as  along  the  street 

His  peaceful  triumph  passed,  unquestioned,  by. 

Now  there  are  moan  ings  by  the  desolate;  shore 

That  are  not  ocean's  ;   by  the  patriot's  bed 
Hearts    throb    for    him    whose    noble    heart    no 
more  - 

Break  oft'  the  rhyme,  for  sorrow  cannot  stop 

To  trim  itself  with  phrases  for  the  ear ; 
Too  fast  the  tears  upon  the  paper  drop: 

Fast  as  the  leaves  are  falling  on  his  bier, 

Thick   as   the   hopes   that  clustered  round  his 

name, 
While  yet  he  walked  with  us,  a  pilgrim  here. 

lie  was  our  prophet,  our  majestic  oak, 

That,  like  Dodona's,  in  Thesprotian  land, 
Whose  leaves  were  oracles,  divinely  spoke. 

We  called  him  giant,  for  in  every  part 

lie  seemed  colossal  ;   in  his  port  and  speech, 
In  his  large  brain  and  in  his  larger  heart. 


ON  THE  -DEATH  OF  DANIEL   WEIMTElt    03 

And  when  his  name  upon  the  roll  we  saw 

Of  those  who  govern,  then  we  felt  secure, 
Hecau.se  we  knew  his  reverence  for  the  law. 

So  the  young  master  of  the  Roman  realm 

Discreetly  thought,  we  cannot  wander  far 
From  the  true  course,  with  Ulpian  at  the  helm. 

Hut  slowly  to  this  loss  our  sense  awakes ; 

To  know  what  space  it  in  the  forum  filled, 
See  what  a  gap  the  temple's  ruin  makes ! 

Kings  have  their  dynasties,  but  not  the  mind ; 

Ciesar  leaves  other  Ciesars  to  succeed, 
Hut  Wisdom,  dying,  leaves  no  heir  behind. 

Who  now  shall  stand  the  regent  at  the  wheel  ? 
Who  knows  the  dread  machinery?  who  hath 

skill 
Our  course  through  oceans  unsurvcyed  to  feel  ? 

Her  mournful  tidings  Albion  lately  sent, 

How  he,  the  victor  in  so  many  fields, 
Fell,  but  not  fighting,  in  the  fields  of  Kent; 

The  chief  whose  conduct  in  the  lofty  scene 

Where  England  stood  up  for  the  world  in  arms, 
Gave  her  victorious  name  to  England's  queen. 


C4   OAT  Till:  DEATH  OF  DA.VIKL   WKHSTER 

But  J)eaceful  Britain  knows,  amid  her  grief, 
She    could    spare    now    the    soldier    and    his 

•sword  ; 
What  can  our  councils  do  without  onr  chief? 

Blest  are  the  peacemakers  !  - — and  he  was  ours, 

Winning,  by  force  of  argument,  the  right 
Between  two  kindred,  more  than  rival  powers. 

Resume  the  rhyme,  and  end  the  funeral  strain ; 

Dying,  he  asked  for  song,  —  he  did  not  slight 
The  harmony  of  numbers,  —  let  the  main 

Sing  round  his  grave  great  anthems,  day  and 
night. 

The  autumn  rains  are  falling  on  his  head, 

O 

The    snows   of    winter    soon    will    shroud    the 

shore, 

The  spring  with  violets  will  adorn  his  bed, 
And  summer  shall  return,  —  but  he,  no  more ! 

We  have  no  high  cathedral  for  his  rest, 

Dim    with    proud    banners   and    the    dust   of 
•  years; 

All  we  can  give  him  is  New  England's  breast 
To  lay  his  head  on,  —  and  his  country's  tears. 


EMERSON 

O  VOICELESS  water  loitering  down 

To  wed  the  As*ahet  :ii id  tali !•  thy  name, 
Taciturn  stream  !  from  concord,  in  the  town 

Where  Hawthorne's  hawthorns  grew  to  fame, 
(And  haply  one  may  yet  survive!) 

Into  thy  wave  receive  a  pilgrim's  tear 
1'Vr  one  just  passed !  partly  a  poet-soul 

And  part  a  priest-one  errant  from  his  sphere, 
Too  large  to  serve  the  little  for  the  whole, 

To  whom  the  vanished  Pans  seemed  still  alive  ; 

Who,  shunning  steeples  and  the  erowd,  to  dwell 

Keniotc,  in  meadows  of  his  boyhood's  love, 
Turning  his  back  on  heaven,  as  erst  on  hell, 
Meek  lover  of  the  good,  though  under  spell, 

Found  Brahma's  blessing  in  the  sinless  grove. 
A  certain  space  our  Master  went  astray 

From  the  known  path,  to  wander  with  the  rest 
Of  those  who,  dazzled  by  some  snndog's  ray, 
Sincerely  fancying  they  beheld  the  day 

Dawn  against  nature's  order  in  the  West, 
05 


06  EMEKSON 

Could  couple  Christ  with  Gautama,  and  bound 
The  Hock  of  Ages  with  a  dial's  round. 

Not  *  over-soid  "  nor  too  much  learning  led 
These  gentle  pagans  to  their  straw-built  shed, 
But  over-hope,  gay  substitute  for  truth 
When  life's  denial  breaks  the  dreams  of  youth  ; 
Hope  of  some  wondrous  Counsellor  to  come 
To  strike  the  oracles  of  Delphi  dumb, 
And  send  back  Simon  to  his  nets  again  — 
'•  The  fisher  "  still,  but  nevermore  of  men  : 
Well  might  this  loftiest  thinker  of  them  all 
Have  smiled  to  find  himself  their  new  St.  Paul! 

He  found  the  way.     Men  gathered  at  his  grave 
In  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  the  word  "forgive" 

Was  said  on  beaded  knee.     Fine  soul  and  brave ! 

If  (piaint  in  rhyme,  if  no  logician  gave 
Laws  to  thy  thinking,  inly  sweet  and  wise, 

Long  in  these  woodlands  may  thine  image  live ! 
And  many  a  musing  Briton's  heart 

Shall  melt,  as  oft  with  moistening  eyes 
lie  lets  his  noisy  train  depart 
To  linger  where, —  O  sacred  art ! 

In  yonder  grave  thy  Druid  lies. 


ANDREW 

EHMINE  or  blazonry,  he  knew  them  not, 

Nor  cloth  of  gold,  for  Duty  was  his  Queen  ; 
But  this  he  knew,  —  a  soul  without  a  spot, 

Judgment  untarnished,  and  a  conscience  clean. 

, 
In  peace,  in  war,  a  worker  day  and  night, 

Laborious  chieftain !  toiling  at  his  lamp ; 
The  children  had  the  splendor  of  the  fight,  — 

Homo  was  his  battle-field,  his  room  the  camp. 

Without  a  wound,  without  a  stain  he  fell, 
Hut  with  life  rounded,  all  his  acts  complete ; 

And  seldom  History  will  have  to  tell 

Of  one  whom  Cato  could  more  gladly  greet.     . 

Among  the  just  his  welcome  should  be  wann, 
Nor  will  New  England  let  his  memory  cease ; 

lie  was  our  peacemaker,  who,  'mid  the  storm 
Of   the  great  conflict,    served  the  Prince  of 
Peace. 


67 


EVERETT 

So  fell  our  statesman,  —  for  he  stood  sublime 
On  that  proud  pedestal,  a  people's  heart,  — 
As  when  some  image,  through  the  touch  of  time, 
That  long  was  reverenced  in  the  public  mart ; 
As  some  tall  clock-tower,  that  was  wont  to  tell 
The  hour  of  duty  to  the  young  and  olden, 
With  tongue  most  musical  of  every  bell, 
Bends  to  its  base,  and  is  no  more  beholden ! 
So  fell  our  Everett :  more  like  some  great  elm, 
Lord  of  the  grove,  but  something  set  apart, 
That  all  the  tempests  could  not  overwhelm, 
Nor  all  the  winters  of  his  seventy  years, 
But  on  some  peaceful  midnight  bursts  his  heart. 
And  in  the  morning  men  behold  the  wreck, 
(Some  with  gray  hairs,  who  cannot    hold   their 

tears), 

But  in  the  giant  timber  find  no  speck 
Nor  unsound  spot,  but  only  wholesome  wood. 
No  secret  worm  consuming  at  the  core 
The  stem  that  ever  seemed  so  fair  and  good  : 
And  aged  men  that  knew  the  tree  of  yore 

G8 


EVEHETT  69 

When  but  a  sapling,  promising  full  well, 
Say  to  each  other,  "  This  majestic  plant 
Came  to  full  growth  ;  it  mado  no  idle  vaunt ; 
From  its  own  weight,  without  a  flaw,  it  fell! " 


ASPROMONTE 

BEAUTY  made  glad  the  day,  —  and  sadness  glad  ; 
So,  without  sorrow,  to  the  grove  we  wandered 
Where  lie  the  loved  ones  in  their  myrtle  bed. 
Till  then  I  never  knew  peace-parted  souls 
Could  unto  souls  on  earth  give  benediction 
Of  peace  like  that  which  they  enjoy  in  heaven. 
For  surely,  as  we  sat  there  in  the  sun, 
On  the  fresh  turf,  there  seemed  a  "  l\uc  volts- 

cum  " 

Descending  on  us  with  each  dropping  leaf ; 
And  on  their  graves  I  think,  almost,  we  laughed, 
Recalling  words  of  theirs,  and  pretty  customs, 
Until  Death  seemed,  as  'twere,  a  pleasant  thing. 
And  when  we  mused,  "  At   home  we   miss  them 

so!" 
One  said,  "They  are  at  home,  and   He  is  with 

them 

Who  saiil  so  sweetly,  4  Children,  come  to  me  ! ' 
And  come  to  me,  ye  heavy-laden,  worn, 
And  half-spent  soldiers  of  the  bitter  battle, 
And  I  will  nurse  you  in  ray  hospital. 
The  hospitality  of  heaven  is  mine : 

70 


ASPROMONTE  71 

I  am  the  one  Physician,  —  yours  forever; 

And  when  your  wounds  are  healed,  we  dwell  as 

friends 

In  tlie  same  mansion,  and  in  purer  air 
Than  where  you  eame   from :   that  was  fraught 

with  peril  — 

Oh,  most  destructive !     I  was  also  there.*  " 
At  this  there  seemed  a  whispering  from  beneath 
A  certain  mound  that  bare  the  name  of  "  Mother; " 
And  we  all  heard  a  voice  as  plain  as  this. 

THE   VOICE 

Matters  nothing  to  me  now 
Who  dispraised  or  praises  me ; 

I  am  gone  where  they  and  thou, 
Fondest  friend  !  ere  long  must  be. 

Dread  thou  to  severely  scan 

Blame  that  is  or  may  have  been ; 

Meeter  Judge  there  is  for  man 
Than  his  fellow-soul  of  sin. 

I  have  known  in  evil  hearts 

Kays  of  goodness,  here  and  there  ; 

And  the  saint,  when  he  departs, 
Hath  full  need  of  human  prayer. 


72  THE  VOICE 

All  are  brothers  ;  and  the  sole 
Hope  of  your  hereafter  rest 

Is  that  Heaven  may  bless  the  whole, 
For  the  One  who  was  the  Blest ; 

Hy  that  word  He  spake  for  them 

Who  had  speared  the  Sinless  through, 
u  Father,  spare  Thou  to  condemn 

Souls  that  know  not  what  they  do." 


TO  JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 

IN    RKTURN    FOR   A   TALWOTYPK   PiCTURK   OF  VENICE 

POET  and  friend  !  if  any  gift  could  bring 
A  joy  like  that  of  listening  while  you  sing, 
'T  were  such  as  this,  —  memorial  of  the  days, 
When  Tuscan  airs  inspired  more  tender  lays ; 
When  the  gray  Apennine,  or  Lombard  plain, 
Sunburnt,  or  spongy  with  autumnal  rain, 
Mingled  perchance,  as  first  they  met  your  sight, 
Some  drops  of  disappointment  with  delight ; 
When,  rudely  wakened  from  the  dream  of  years, 
You  heard  Velino  thundering  in  your  ears, 
And  fancy  drooped,  —  until  Romagna's  wine 
Brought  you  new  visions,  thousand-fold  more  fine; 
When  first  in  Florence,  hearkening  to  the  flow 
Of  Arno's  midnight  music,  hoarse  below, 
You  thought  of  home,  and  recollected  those 
Who    loved   your    verse,  but   hungered    for  your 

prose, 

And,  more  than  all,  the  sonnets  that  you  made  ; 
Longed  for  the  letters,  —  ah,  too  poorly  paid! 
-  73 


74  TO  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

Thanks  for  thy  l>o<m  !     I  look,  and  I  am  there ; 
The  soaring  belfry  guides  me  to  the  square ; 
The  punctual  doves,  that  wait  the  stroke  of  one, 
Flutter  above  me  and  becloud  the  sun  ; 
T  is  Venice !   Venice  !  and  with  joy  1  put 
In  Adria's  wave,  incredulous,  my  foot; 
I  smell  the  seaweed,  and  again  I  -hear 
The  click  of  oars,  the  screaming  gondolier. 
Ha  !   the  Kialto,  —  Dominic  !   a  boat ; 
Now  in  a  gondola  to  dream  and  ttnat : 
Pull  the  slight  cord  and  draw  the  silk  aside, 
And  read  the  city's  history  as  we  glide; 
For  strangely  here,  where  all  is  strange,  indeed, 
Not  he  who  runs,  but  he  who  swims,  may  read. 
Mark  now,  albeit  the  moral  make  thee  sad, 
What  stately  palaces  these  merchants  had  ! 
Proud  houses  once  !  —  (irimani  and  Pisani, 
Spinelli,  Foseari,  (liustiuiaui  ; 
liehold  their  homes  and  monuments  in  one  ! 
They  writ  their  names  in  water,  and  are  gone. 
My  voyage  is  ended,  all  the  round  is  past,  — 
See !  the  twin  columns  and  the  bannered  mast, 
The  domes,  the  steeds,  tin?  Uon's  winged  sign, 
**  Peace  to  thee,  Mark  !  evangelist  of  mine  !  " 

Poetie  art !  reserved  for  prosy  times 

Of  great  inventions  and  of  little  rhymes  ; 


TO  JAMKS  HUSSKLL   LOWELL  75 

For  us,  to  whom  a  wisely  ordering  Heaven 
Ether  for  Lethe,  wires  for  wings,  lias  given  ; 
Whom  vapors  work  for,  yet  who  seorn  a  ghost, 
Amid  enchantments  disenchanted  most ; 
Whoso  light,  whose  fire,  whose  messages  hud  been 
In  blessed  Urban's  liberal  days  a  sin, 
Sure,  in  Damascus,  any  reasoning  Turk 
Would  eount  your  Talhotype  a  sorcerer's  work. 

Strange  power  !  that  thus  to  actual  presence  brings 
The  shades  of  distant  or  departed  things, 
That  calls  dead  Thebes  or  Athens  up,  or  Aries, 
To  show  like  spectres  on  the  banks  of  Charles! 
Hut  we  receive  this  marvel  with  the  rest ; 
Nothing  is  new  or  wondrous  in  the  West; 
Life  's  all  a  miracle, —  and  every  age 
To  the  great  wonder-book  but  adds  a  page.' 


TO  HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

THINK  not  that  this  enchanted  isle 
Wherein  I  dwell,  some  days  a  king, 

Postpones  till  June  its  tardy  smile, 
And  only  knows  imagined  spring. 

Not  yet  my  lilies  are  in  bloom  ; 

But  lo  !  my  cherry,  bridal-white, 
Whose  sweetness  fills  my  sunny  room, 

The  bees,  and  me,  with  one  delight. 

And  on  the  brink  of  Lanham  Brook 
The  laughing  cowslips  catch  mine  eye,  . 

As  on  the  bridge  I  stop  to  look 
At  the  stray  blossoms  loitering  by. 

Our  almond-willow  waves  its  plumes 
In  contrast  with  the  dark-haired  pine, 

And  in  the  morning  sun  perfumes 
The  lane  almost  like  summer's  vine. 

Dear  Poet !  shouldst  thou  tread  with  me, 
Even  in  the  spring,  these  woodland  ways, 
70 


TO  HENRY  WADSWOHTH  LQ$GFKU*QW  77 

Under  thy  foot  the  violet  see, 
And  overhead  the  maple  sprays, 

Thou  mightst  forego  thy  Charles's  claim, 
To  wander  by  our  stream  awhile : 

So  should  these  meadows  grow  to  fame, 
And  all  the  Muses  haunt  our  Isle. 


WITH   A  VOLUME  OF  KEATS 

44  His  name  was  writ  in  water.'*     Yes,  too  young 
The  minstrel  perished  to  have  earned  a  name, 

To  faee  the  eold  blight  of  the  critic's  tongue, 
And  his  fresh  laurels  cankered  ere  they  came. 

Loved  Adonais  ?  martyr  to  the  boon 

Which  the  gods  gave,  or  promised,  at  his  birth! 
Think,  —  in  lamenting  that  he  died  so  soon, 

How  few  such  memories  live  so  long  on  earth! 

Full  oft  must  obloquy  precede  renown: 

Ere  the  saint's  picture  wear  its  ring  of  light, 

The  living  head  must  feel  the  thorny  crown  ; 
The  stars! — where  were  they,  if  there  came 
no  Night  ? 

Know,  love,  the  poet  must  not  yield  alone 
Honey  and  roses,  —  fire  must  dwell  within  ; 

The  fairest  flesh  must  underneath  have  bone, 
The  fiercest  beast  may  wear  the  softest  skin. 


78 


WITH  A    VOLUME  0V  KKATS  70 

And  something  rough  and  resolute  and  sour 
Must  with  the  sweetness  of  the  soul  combine  ; 

For,  although  gentleness  be  part  of  power, 
'Tis  only  strength  makes  gentleness  divine. 


THE   BIRTHPLACE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS 

A  LOWLY  roof  of  simple  thatch,  — 

No  home  of  pride,  of  pomp,  and  sin,  — 
So  freely  let  us  lift  the  latch, 
*     The  willing  latch  that  says,  u  Come  in." 

Plain  dwelling  this !  a  narrow  door, 
No  ear]>et  by  soft  sandals  trod, 

But  just  for  peasant's  feet  a  floor,  — 
Small  kingdom  for  a  child  of  God ! 

Yet  here  was  Scotland's  noblest  born, 
And  here  Apollo  chose  to  light ; 

And  here  those  large  eyes  hailed  the  morn 
That  had  for  beauty  such  a  sight ! 

There,  as  the  glorious  infant  lay, 

Some  angel  fanned  him  with  his  wing, 

And  whispered,  "  Dawn  upon  the  day 
Like  a  new  sun  !  go  forth  and  sing!  " 


80 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  ROBERT  BURNS     81 

He  rose  and  sang,  and  Scotland  heard ; 

The  round  world  echoed  with  his  song, 
And  hearts  in  every  land  were  stirred 

With  love,  and  joy,  and  scorn  of  wrong. 

Some  their  cold  lips  disdainful  curled, 
Yet  the  sweet  lays  would  many  learn ; 

But  he  went  singing  through  the  world, 
In  most  melodious  unconcern. 

For  flowers  will  grow,  and  showers  will  fall, 
And  clouds  will  travel  o'er  the  sky ; 

And  the  great  God,  who  cares  for  all, 
lie  will  not  let  his  darlings  die. 

But  they  shall  sing  in  spite  of  men, 

In  spite  of  poverty  and  shame, 
And  show  the  world  the  ]  wet's  pen 

May  match  the  sword  in  winning  fame. 


THE   PENNYROYAL 

I  M AKKI.D  tliis  morning,  by  the  wood, 

What  way  the  pennyroyal  grew, 
Amid  the  waste  of  snow  that  stood 

Deep  on  the  path  which  well  I  knew ; 
For  every  slender  stem  npreared 

Its  head  within  a  little  round, 
In  which  no  leaf  nor  blade  appeared 

Save  its  sweet  self  from  the  bare  ground, 
Its  own  warm  heart  had  nestled  there, 

A  sheltered  home  wherein  to  thrive, 
Looking  so  stately,  fresh,  and  fair, 

And  where  all  else  was  dead,  alive. 
There,  in  its  charmed  hold  serene, 

And  strong  and  fragrant  as  it  rose, 
It  made  me  think  of  my  soul's  queen, 

Whom  I  from  all  the  world  had  chose. 
I  thought  of  one  whose  heart  of  love, 

WhereVr  she  dwells,  her  circle  finds; 
Amid  life's  frost,  who  soars  above 

The  weariness  of  vacant  minds ; 
Who  rules  her  little  realm,  content, 

Not  caring  for  a  large  applause, 
82 


THE  PENNYROYAL  83 

Still  finding  in  till  hearts  consent 
To  make  her  wishes  more  than  laws. 

Go,  fragrant  sprays,  and  touch  her  hand, 
Or  press  her  lip,  if  it  may  be ; 

May  her  charmed  circle  soon  expand 
Enough  to  find  there  room  for  me ! 


JULY 

OuiON  dimly  burns  to-night, 

I  miss  the  starry  Seven, 
Ami  with  a  mild  restraint  of  light 
..A  returns  walks  the  heaven  ; 

The  frog  pipes  feebly  in  the  fen, 
The  whippoorwill  is  faint 

With  chanting  to  regardless  men 
His  petulant  complaint. 

So  June  is  over,  and  the  raee 
Of  fire  —  tli'  electric  fly  — - 

Has  eome  her  obsequies  to  grace, 
And  welcome  in  July. 

The  year's  great  miracle  is  done,  — 
The  wonder  of  the  spring,  — 

And  soon  the  liberal-handed  sun 
His  promised  fruit  shall  bring. 

Like  some  fresh  marble,  the  sublime 
Work  of  immortal  hands  ! 

84 


JULY  .      85 

Nature  before  us,  in  her  prime, 
Almost  completed  stands. 

And  now  the  dreaming'  eye  foresees 

The  sculptor's  final  stroke, 
The  golden  heaps  beneath  the  trees, 

The  purpling  of  the  oak. 

Ah  !  might  we  never  forward  look 

Or  be  like  insects  blind. 
And  in  the  sunshine  and  the  brook 

Sufficient  glory  find. 


THE  SCALLOP-SHELL 

I  CAME  to  the  city  that  looks  towards  the  sea, 

But  found  on  my  table  no  scallop  for  me ! 

There  were  bills  from  the  butcher,  and  billets  from 

girls, 

Things  common  as  pebbles,  and  precious  as  pearls ; 
There  were  volumes  of  poetry,  volumes  of  prose, — 
By  fifty  new  poets  whom  nobody  knows  ; 
There  were  things  fair  to  look  at,  and  tilings  sweet 

to  smell, 
Engravings  and  nosegays,  —  but  devil  a  shell ! 

Now,  my  lady,  I  teased  her  witli  many  a  prayer, 
When  she  went  to  the  ocean,  to  think  of  me  there, 
And  to  write  me  a  letter  at  Sudbury  Oaks,  — 
A  page  full  of  gossip,  and  all  the  best  jokes  ! 
This,  indeed,  she  denied  me,  but  whispered,  u  Write 

me, 

And  then  I  will  think  of  you,  down  by  the  sea.'* 
u  Oh,  think  of  me  everywhere^  lady  —  farewell ! 
But  to  show  that  you  think  of  me,  send  me  a 

shell." 

86 


THE  SCALLOP-SHELL  87 

Then  I  went  to  the  greenwood,  —  I  slept  in  the 

shade 

Of  the  midsummer  branches  that  sang  serenade ; 
There  I  breathed  the  fresh  meadows,  I  drank  the 

warm  vine, 

I  tasted  the  perfume  that  weeps  from  the  pine, 
And  I  lay  by  the  hrookside,  a-listening  the  bee, 
And  was  lulled  by  the  locust,  —  but  thought  of  the 

sea  ; 

I  picked  the  green  apples  by  chance  as  they  fell, 
And  I  fed  me  with  berries,  —  but  sighed  for  my 

shell. 

Back  and  forth  to  the  wood  with  no  song  on  my 

lips, 

Back  and  forth  to  the  city  to  gaze  on  the  ships, 
To  eye  the  tall  vessels  and  smell  of  the  sea, — 
But  scallop  or  cockle  comes  never  to  me ! 
I  wander  at  daybreak,  I  sit  late  at  night, 
And  I  think  many  things,  but  have  no  heart  to 

write  ; 

No  heart,  dear,  to  speak  of ;  't  is  mute  in  its  cell :  — 
Could  Apollo  make  music  deprived  of  his  shell  ? 


THE  LAST  GENTIAN 

SEE  !  I  survive  because  I  bowed  my  head, 
Hearing  the  Snow's  first  footfall  in  the  air ; 

I  felt  his  cold  kiss  on  my  cheek  with  dread, 
And  to  my  sister  said.  Beware  ! 

And  stooped  beneath  my  bank  and  let  him  pass. 

Next  morn  the  brook  was  glass : 

My  simple  sister,  in  her  pride, 

Disdained  to  bow  her  head,  so  drooped  and  died. 

Last  gentian  of  the  withering  year ! 

Left  for  Augusta's  hand, 
Thou  shalt  not  linger  shivering  here 

By  the  bleak  north  wind  fanned, 
Until  thy  blue  eye  turn  to  gray, 
And  from  thy  lids  the  lashes  fall  away. 
I  will  not  leave  thee,  loving  thee  so  well, 

To  face  the  ruin  of  November's  air ; 
But    thou    shalt    go   where    Summer   still    doth 
dwell, 

Soft  light  and  bird-song,  — all  things  bright  or 

fair,  - 

88 


THE  LAST  GENTIAN  89 

And  happy  thoughts  and  wise  thoughts  fed  with 

books, 
And  gentle  speech,  and  loving  looks 

From  eyes  that  still  make  sunshine  everywhere. 
For  know,  thou  trembling  stem,  that  not  alone 

My  lady  bears  the  summer  in  her  name : 
Her  heart  is  of  that  season  ;  and  her  tone, 

When  she  shall  greet  thee,  —  guessing  whence  it 

came,  — 

And  the  sweet  welcome  of  her  smile 
Thy  simple  soul  shall  so  beguile, 
That  hadst  thou  lips  as  lids,  those  lips  would  say 
The  day  I  found  thee  was  thy  sunniest  day. 


ON  A  MAGNOLIA  FLOWER 

MEMORIAL  of  my  former  days ! 

•Magnolia,  as  I  scent  thy  breath, 
And  on  thy  pallid  beauty  gaze, 

I  feel  not  far  from  death. 

So  much  hath  happened  !  and  so  much 

The  tomb  hath  claimed  of  what  was  mine  ! 

Thy  fragrance  moves  me  with  a  touch 
As  from  a  hand  divine  : 

So  many  dead  !  so  many  wed  ! 

Since  first  by  this  Magnolia's  tree, 
I  pressed  a  gentle  hand,  and  said 

A  word  no  more  for  me ! 

Lady,  who  sendest  from  the  South 
"*     This  frail,  pale  token  of  the  past, 
I  press  the  petals  to  my  mouth, 
And  sigh  —  as  't  were  my  last. 


90 


ON  A   MAGNOLIA   FLOWER  91 

Oh,  love,  we  live,  but  many  fell ! 

The  world  's  a  wreck,  but  we  survive ! 
Say,  rather,  still  on  earth  we  dwell, 

But  gray  at  thirty-five  ! 


TO  A  LILAC 


0  LILAC,  in  whose  purple  well 
Youth  in  per  pet  no  doth  dwell, 
My  fancy  feels  thy  fragrant  spell. 

ii 

Of  all  that  morning  dewdrops  feed, 
All  flowers  of  garden,  field,  or  mead, 
Thou  art  the  first  in  childhood's  creed. 

in* 

And  even  to  me  thy  breath,  in  spring, 
Hath  power,  a  little  while,  to  bring 
Back  to  my  heart  its  blossoming. 

IV 

1  seem  again,  with  pupil's  pace, 
And  happy,  shining,  morning-face, 
Bound  schoolward,  running  learning's  race. 


TO  A   LILAC 


Thou,  too,  recall's!  the  tender  time, 

After  my  primer,  ere  my  prime, 

When  love  was  born  and  life  was  rhyme : 

VI 

; 

My  morning  ramble,  all  alone ; 
My  moonlit  walk  by  haunted  stone ; 
My  love,  that  ere  it  Hedged  was  flown ! 

VII 

At  noon,  tired  out  with  hateful  task, 
1  fling  aside  my  worldling's  mask, 
And  for  my  bunch  of  lilac  ask. 

VIII 

At  vesper-time,  Celestial  tea 
Hath  no  refreshment  like  to  thee, 
Whose  breath  is  nourishment  for  me. 

IX 

At  midnight,  when  my  friends  are  gone, 
And  I  sit  down  to  ponder  on 
The  day,  what  it  hath  lost  or  won. 


94  TO  A    LILAC 

X 

Thy  perfume,  like  a  flageolet 
That  once,  by  dark  Bolsena's  lake, 

What  time  the  sun  made  golden  set, 

I  heard  (and  seem  to  hoar  it  yet) ! 
A  thousand  memories  dotli  awake 
Of  busy  boyhood's  vanished  powers ; 

Of  young  ambition,  flushed  with  praise; 
Of  old  companions,  and  of  hours 

That  had  the  sunshine  of  whole  days ; 

Of  Italy,  and  Roman  ways; 
Of  Tuscan  ladies,  courteous,  fair, 
And  kind  its  beautiful  -—forbear! 
O  Memory  —  those  impassioned  eyes  ! 
Beware !  for  that  way  madness  lies ! 

XI 

Sweet  lilac,  thou  art  come  to  June, 
And  all  our  orioles  arc  in  tune  : 
Thy  doom  is  —  to  be  withering  soon. 

XII 

And  so,  farewell !  for  other  flowers 
Must  have  their  day  ;  and  mortal  powers 
Cannot  love  all  tilings  at  all  hours. 


TO  A   LILAC  95 

XIII 

Soon  I  shall  have  my  flower  de  luce, 
And  the  proud  peony,  whose  use 
It  is  to  teach  me  pride's  abuse. 

XIV 

For  proud  am  I  as  proud  can  be ;     'f 
But  when  that  crimson  gaud  I  see, 
My  lilac's  memory  comes  to  me. 


THE  TAKING  OF  SEBASTOPOL 

BY  AN    AMERICAN,  ABOAKD   THE   BOSTON   SHIP  SULTANA 

I 

I  SAILED  by  Tenedos,  in  sight  of  Troy, 
My  Homer  in  my  hand,  but  in  my  heart 

Little  remembrance  of  the  past,  or  joy 
In  the  sad  present  or  the  poet's  art. 

A  ship  went  by  that  bore  my  country's  name, 
"The  Great. Republic,"  and  a  moment's  thrill 

Flashed   through   my  breast,  but  vanished   as   it 

came, 
For  in  that  bark  an  Iliad  was  of  ill. 

A  thousand  wounded  soldiers  in  her  deeps 

Lay  groaning,  bleeding  ;  scarce  a  man  but  bore 

His  deathmark  on  him.     Happy  he  that  sleeps 
There  where  he  fell,  beside  the  Politic  shore. 

And  farther  onward  as  we  stretched  our  sail 
Along  the  sacred  Hellespont,  a  gleam 
90 


THE   TAKING   OF  SEBASTOPOL  97 

Came  iu  the  night,  and  mingled  with  a  wail 

That  seemed  the  voice  of  the  complaining  stream. 

Black  messengers  of  death  were  on  the  wing, 
Like  clouds  containing  tempests,  darkly  driven 

By  autumn  winds  —  alas !  the  news  they  bring 
The  doom  that  took  the  gentle  chief  to  heaven. 

Farewell,  braye  heart!  if  not  the  brightest  sword, 
Set  of  true  temj>er,  thou  wert  of  the  best : 

Considerate  chieftain,  unpresuming  Lord, 
Fitzroy !  good  angels  bear  thee  to  thy  rest ! 

We  mourned  with  England,  if  the  vulgar  swarm   . 

Head  of  her  sorrow  with  unfriendly  smile; 
We  mourn  for  them  too,  for  our  hearts  are  warm 

Yet  with  a  drop  from  the  ancestral  isle. 

Tell  mo  thy  name,  American !     What  race, 
What  blood,  what  accent  ruled  thee  at  thy 
birth? 

That  when  the  news  comes  of  a  new  disgrace 
Mak'st  England's  grief  the  staple  of  thy  mirth. 

II 

But  we  are  past  Seraglio  Point  —  behold  ! 
Scutari  —  Pera  —  cypresses  —  caiques  — ^ 


98  THE  TAKING  OF  SEBASTOPOL 

All  the  old  places  —  lo!  the  Horn  of  Gold! 
The  Sultan's  pride  —  the  glory  of  the  Greeks. 

There  as  we  anchored  in  Byzantium's  wave 
Beneath  the  walls  of  Constantino,  a  cry 

Startled  our  ears;  but  'twas  a  cry  that  gave 
Joy  to  my  soul  and  gladness  to  mine  eye. 

A  new  gleam  breakcth  on  the  dusky  night ! 

Gilding  Sophia's,  like  Saint  Peter's  dome ; 
Good  news !   they   have   it !    God   hath  sped  the 
right ; 

An  hundred  minarets  flash  it  on  the  foam ! 

Mount  Ida  caught  the  flash  and  sent  it  on 
To  the  isle  of  Lemnos,  like  that  courier-light 

Which    bright    with    news   of   Troy's  destruction 

shone, 
And  tlu'iii'u  it  sped  to  Athos'  holy  height ; 

So  on  to  Argos,  on  to  Syracuse, 

And,  by  Ilesperia,  to  the  bounteous  land 

That  owes  to  Gallic  hearts  its  generous  juice, 
Crimsoning  the  white  face  of  the  sacred  strand ; 

Till  to  this  young  half-world,  where  Hesperus 
Hangs  a  new  signal  in  the  nation's  eyes, 


THE   TAKING  OF  SEBASTOPOL          99 

The  lightning  sped !   and  brought  the  thrill  to 

us  — 
A  thrill  of  joy  !  they  have  it !  the  Allies ! 

For  we  must  joy  with  England  or  abjure 
The  faith  in  freedom  that  our  fathers  had. 

Dost  thou  rejoice  not  ?     Wouldst  thyself  endure 
The  sway  whose  downfall  does  not  make  thee 
glad? 

Tell  me  thy  name,  that  I  may  set  it  down, 
And  say  this  man  — -  he  had  a  double  soul : 

Proud  of  old  England  and  her  past  renown, 
He  felt  110  triumph  at  Sebastopol ! 


DECEMBER  FOURTEENTH 

ANNIVERSARY   OF  TUB    DEATH    OF   PRINCE    ALBKKT,    18C1 

A  GLOOM  of  sickness,  gathering  in  the  East, 
Spreads  over  England  growing  to  despair : 

Outside  the  Prince's  chamber  waits  a  priest, 
With  that  last  medicine  for  onr  clay,  a  prayer. 

Not  now  in  state,  a  royal  mother  knelt, 
Thinking  of  this  day  ten  dead  years  ago : 

Last  night  the  staghound  wailed ;  perchance  it  felt 
The  sense  those  creatures  have  of  coming  woe. 

Then  England  prayed,  but  not  alone  the  isle 
Where   England's  throne  is :    on  far  Western 
plains 

Beyond  the  seas  men  prayed,  and  in  strange  style 
Those  dark-eyed  Persians  in  their  Hindu  fanes. 

Then  Alexandra,  in  her  secret  soul 
And  silent  closet,  all  alone  with  One 

Who  lent  her  of  his  own  sweet  self-control, 
Prayed  to  the  Father,  imaged  in  that  Son : 
100 


DECEMBER  FOURTEENTH  101 

"  Let  not  the  heir  of  England,  O  my  God ! 
Go  to  the  grave  without  a  story  meet 
For  such  nobility  of  soul  and  birth ; 

But  in  that  high  path  which  his  father  trod, 
Let  him  walk  ever  with  unswerving  feet, 
Until  liis  reign  accomplished  be  on  earth. 

Thou  who  art  King  of  kings  and  all  mankind, 
Who  boldest  in  thy  hand  the  hearts  of  kings, 
Knowing  their  purposes  and  men's  desire, 

Be  to  my  prayer  thy  gracious  ear  inclined, 
In  this  December's  darkest  hour  that  brings 
Remembrance  back  of  my  lord's  goodly  sire, 

Who  went  to  glory  with  his  crown  of  grace 
And  spotless  record  in  his  princely  hand, 

.    And  all  the  kingdom  sorrowing  at  his  bier, 

That  Thou,  who  ever  didst  befriend  his  race, 
AVilt  spare  my  husband  for  this  weeping  land, 
To  serve  it  ever,  as  thy  servant  here. 


Oh,  Albert  Edward!  let  the  people  say, 

In  thee  we  know  our  Heaven-appointed  king, 

Because  when  all  were  heart-sick  with  dismay 
Hope  fanned  our  fever  with  her  constant  wing; 

And  when  the  star  of  life  was  hardly  seen 
Under  one  awful  shadow  in  the  storm, 


102  DECEMBER  FOURTEENTH 

That  cloud  was  broken!  and  the  blue  serene 
Si  in  li><l,  — and  the  star  burned  steadily  and  warm, 

For  England's  prayer  was  heard  by  Him  who  made 
England  so  mighty !  rich  and  free  ami  strong. 

Oh  may  that  sceptre  still  be  wisely  swayed 

Which  Heaven  hath  blest  so  largely  and  so  long ! 


• 


ST.  JAMES'S  PARK 

I  WATCHED  the  swans  in  that  proud  park 

Which  England's  Queen  looks  out  upon ; 
I  sat  there  till  the  dewy  dark,  — 

And  every  other  soul  was  gone ; 

And  sitting  silent,  all  alone, 
I  seemed  to  hear  a  spirit  say, 

He  calm,  the  night  is,  —  never  moan 
For  friendships  that  have  passed  away. 

The  swans  that  vanished  from  thy  sight 

Will  come  to-morrow,  at  their  hour ; 
But  when  thy  joys  have  taken  flight, 

To  bring  them  back  no  prayer  hath  power. 

T  is  the  world's  law ;  and  why  deplore 
A  doom  that  from  thy  birth  was  fate  ? 

True,  't  is  a  bitter  word,  "  No  more  !  " 
But  look  beyond  this  mortal  state. 

Believ'st  thou  in  eternal  things? 
Thou  feelest  in  thy  inmost  heart, 
103 


104  ST.  JAMES'S  PARK 

Thou  art  not  clay  ;  thy  soul  hath  wings, 
And  what  thou  seest  is  but  part. 
Make  this  thy  medicine  for  the  smart 

Of  every  day's  distress :  be  dumb ; 
In  each  new  loss  thou  truly  art 

Tasting  the  power  of  things  to  come. 


VESPERS  ON  THE   SHORE  OF  THE 
MEDITERRANEAN 

At  Savona.  a  very  ancient  little  city  ou  the  coast  of  Genoa, 
tin-re  stiinds  a  Madonna  by  the  lighthouse,  about  twelve  feet 
high,  under  which  arc  inscribed,  in  letters  of  a  corresponding 
size,  two  Sapphic  verses,  which  are  both  good  Latin  and  choice 
1 1 alia u,  made  by  Gabriello  Chiabrera,  "  the  prince  of  Italian 
lyric  poets,"  who  was  a  native  of  Savona,  — 

"  In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 
Invoco  te  uostra  benigna  stella." 

Valery,  the  most  agreeable  of  Italian  travelers,  —  a  charming 
and  instructive  writer,  and  a  pleasant  corrective  to  the  sharpness 
of  Forsyth,  —  remarks  that  this  pretty  distich  shows  the  genius 
and  analogy  of  the  two  languages,  the  latter  of  which  can  only  be 
well  known  to  those  who  are  conversant  with  the  former. 

These  verses  of  Chiabrera's  are  actually  sung,  to  this  day,  as 
the  burden  of  an  affecting  litany  to  the  Virgin,  in  daily  use  among 
the  mariners  of  the  Riviera. 

RELIGION'S  purest  presence  was  not  found, 
By  the  first  followers  of  our  Saviour's  creed, 

In  stately  fanes  where  trump  and  timbrel-sound 
Sent  up  the  chorus  in  a  strain  agreed, 

And  where  the  decked  oblation's  wail  might  plead 

For  guilty  man  with  Abraham's  holy  seed. 

105 


106  VESPERS   OiV   THE  SHORE 

Not  iu  vast  domes,  horizons  hung  by  men, 
Where  golden  panels  fret  a  marble  sky, 

And  things  below  look  up,  and  wonder  when 
Those  lifelike  seraphim  would  start  and  fly! 

Not  where  the  heart  is  mastered  by  the  eye 

Will  worship,  anthem-winged,  ascend  most  high. 

But  in  the  damp  cathedral  of  the  grove, 
Where  Nature  feels  the  sanctitude  of  rest, 

Or  in  the  stillness  of  the  sheltered  cove, 
Which  noiseless  water-fowl  alone  molest, 

At  times  a  reverence  will  pervade  the  breast 

Which  will  not  always  come,  a  bidden  guest. 

Oft  as  the  parting  smiles  of  day  and  night 
Flush  earth  and  ocean  with  a  roseate  hue, 

And  the  quick  changes  of  the  magic  light 
Prolong  the  glory  of  their  warm  adieu, 

Each  pilgrim  on  the  hills,  and  every  crew 

On  the  lulled  waters,  frame  their  vows  anew. 

Then  by  the  waves  that  lip  Liguria's  land, 

In  Genoa's  gulf,  thou,  wanderer!  must  have 
heard 

What,. more  than  hymns  from  Pergolesi's  hand, 
The  living  soul  of  adoration  stirred, 


OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN  107 

And,  like  the  note  of  spring's  first  welcomed  bird, 
Some   thoughts  awoke  —  for   which  there   is   no 
word,  — 

The  shipman's  chant !  as  noting  travelers  tell, 
In  either  language  —  old  and  new  —  the  same  ; 

But  more  they  might  have  truly  said,  and  well, 
For  't  is  a  speech  the  universe  may  claim  — 

Men  of  all  times,  all  climes,  and  every  name  — 

Devotion's  tongue!  which  from  the  Godhead  came. 


HYMN 

Tost  rudderless  around  the  deep, 
By  Apennine  and  Alpine  blast, 

Which  o'er  the  surge  in  fury  sweep, 
And  make  a  bulrush  of  our  mast, 

We  murmur  in  our  half-hour's  sleep, 
To  thee,  Madonna  !  till  the  storm  be  past : 
In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 
Invoco  te  nostra  benigna  stella. 

Whether  for  weeks  our  bark  hath  striven 
With  death  in  wild  Sardinia's  waves, 

Or  downward  far  as  Tunis  driven, 

Threat  us  with  life  —  the  life  of  slaves, 


108  HYMN 

We  know  whose  hand  its  help  has  given, 
And  locked  the  lightning  in  its  thunder  caves. 
In  mare  irato,  in  subita  proeella, 
Invoco  to  nostra  benigna  stella. 

0  Virgin !  when  the  landsman's  hymn, 

At  vesper  time,  on  bended  knee, 
In  sunlit  aisle,  or  chapel  dim, 

Or  cloister  cell,  is  paid  to  thee, 
Hear  us  !  that  ocean's  pavement  skim, 
And  join  our  anthem  to  the  raging  sea : 

In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 

Invoco  te  nostra  benigna  stella. 

And  when  the  tempest's  wrath  is  o'er, 

And  tired  Libeccio  sinks  to  rest, 
And  starlight  falls  upon  the  shore 

Where  love  sits  watching,  uncaressed, 
Though  hushed  the  tumult  and  the  roar, 
Again   the  prayer  we'll  chant  which  Thou  hast 

blest : 

In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 
Invoco  te  nostra  benigna  stella. 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  CONCORD  AT  GIRGENTI 

NOT  far  from  yEtna  the  Sicilian  sun 
Shines  on  a  broken  fane  whose  work  is  done : 
The  columns  linger,  but  the  hymn  is  ended ; 
The  smoke  of  sacrifice,  that  once  ascended, 
Staining  the  sapphire  with  an  earthlier  blue, 
Is  vanished  with  the  crowd,  from  morning's  view : 
Music  and  garlands  greet  no  more  the  day  ; 
Their  gods  are  gone,  and  ours  alone  hath  sway. 

Such  is  Time's  way  with  temples :  look  at  thine  I 
Those  changing  hairs,  the  daily-deepening  line  ! 
Mark    tla*   slow  signs;  then   in   these   things   of 

St  me 

Read  Agrigeatum's  history  —  and  thine  own. 

109 


CAMPANILE  DI  PISA 

SNOW  was  glistening  on  the  mountains,  but  the 

air  was  that  of  June, 
Leaves  were  falling,  but  the  runnels  playing  still 

their  summer  tune, 
And  the  dial's  lazy  shadow  hovered  nigh  the  brink 

of  noon. 
On  the  benches   in  the   market  rows  of  languid 

idlers  lay, 
When  to  Pisa's  nodding  belfry,  with  a  friend,  I 

took  my  way. 

From  the  top  we  looked  around  us,  and  as  far  as 
eye  might  strain, 

Saw  no  sign  of  life  or  motion  in  the  town  or  on 
the  plain ; 

Hardly  seemed  the  river  moving  through  the  wil 
lows  to  the  main  ; 

Nor   was   any  noise   disturbing    Pisa    from    her 
drowsy  hour, 

Save  the  doves  that  fluttered  'neath  us,  in  and  out, 
and  round  the  tower. 
110 


CAMPANILE  DI  PISA  111 

Not  a  shout  from  gladsome  children,  nor  the  clat 
ter  of  a  wheel, 

Nor  the  spinner  of  the  suburb  winding  his  dis 
cordant  reel, 

Nor  the  stroke  upon  the  pavement  of  a  hoof  or  of 
a  heel : 

Even  the  slumberers  in  the  churchyard  of  the 
Campo  Santo  seemed 

Scarce  more  quiet  than  the  living  world  that 
underneath  us  dreamed. 

Dozing  at  the  city's  portal,  heedless  guard  the 

sentry  kept ; 
More  than  oriental  dullness  o'er  the  sunny  farms 

had  crept ; 
Near  the  walls  the  ducal  herdsmen  by  the  dusty 

roadside  slept ; 
While  the  camels,  resting  round  him,  half  alarmed 

the  sullen  ox, 
Seeing   those    Arabian    monsters   pasturing  with 

Etruria's  flocks. 

Then  it  was,  like  one  who  wandered,  lately,  singing 

by  the  Rhine 
Strains  perchance  to  maiden's  hearing  sweeter  than 

this  verse  of  mine, 
That  we  bade   Imagination  lift   us  on  her   wing 

divine ; 


112  CAMPANILE  1>I  PISA 

And  the  days  of   Pisa's  greatness  rose  from  the 

sepulchral  past, 
AY  hen  a  thousand   conquering  galleys   bore   her 

standard  at  the  mast. 

Memory  for  a  moment  crowned  her  sovereign  mis- 

^  tress  of  the  seas, 
When>ihe  braved,  upon  the  billows,  Venice  and 

the  Genoese, 
Daring  to  deride  the  Pontiff,  though  he  shook  his 

angry  keys ; 
When  her   admirals  triumphant,  riding  o'er   the 

Soldan's  waves, 
Brought  from  Calvary's  holy  mountain  fitting  soil 

for  knightly  graves. 

When  the  Saracen  surrendered,  one  by  one,  his 

pirate  isles, 
And  Ionia's  marble  trophies   decked  Lungarno's 

Gothic  piles, 
Where   the  festal   music  floated   in   the   light  of 

ladies'  smiles ; 
Soldiers  in  the  busy  court-yard,  nobles  in  the  halls 

above  — 
Oh !   those   days   of    arms  are  over  —  arms  and 

courtesy  and  love ! 


CAMPANILE  Dl  PISA  113 

Now,  as  on  Achilles'  buckler,  next  a  peaceful  scene 

succeeds ; 
Pious  crowds  iu  the  cathedral  duly  tell  their  blessed 

beads ; 
Students  walk  the  learned  cloister,  —  Ariosto  wakes 

the  reeds,  — 
Science  dawns,  and  Galileo  opens  teethe  Italian 

youth, 
As  he    were   a  new   Columbus,   new  -  discovered 

realms  of  truth. 

Hark!    what  murmurs  from   the   million  in  the 

bustling  market  rise ! 
All  the  lanes  are  loud  with  voices,  all  the  windows 

dark  with  eyes ; 
Black  with  men  the  marble  bridges,  heaped  the 

shores  with  merchandise ; 
Turks  and  Greeks  and  Libyan  merchants  in  the 

square  their  councils  hold, 
And  the  Christian   altars   glitter,  gorgeous  with 

Byzantine  gold ! 

Look!    anon  the  masqueraders  don  their  holiday 

attire ; 
Every   palace   is   illumined,  all   the  town   seems 

built  of  fire ; 


114  CAMPANILE  DI  /'ASM 

Rainbow-colored  lanterns  dangle  from  the  top  of 

every  spire : 
Pisa's  patron  saint  hath  hallowed  to  himself  the 

joyful  day ; 
Never  on  the  thronged  Rialto  showed  the  Carnival 

more  gay. 

Suddenly  the  bell  beneath  us  broke  the  vision  with 

its  chime. 
'*  Signers,"  quoth  our  gray  attendant,  "  it  is  almost 

vesper  time ; " 
Vulgar  life  resumed  its  empire,  down  we  dropt 

from  the  sublime. 
Here  and  there  a  friar  passed  us,  as  we  paced  the 

silent  streets, 
And   a  cardinal's   rumbling  carriage   roused   the 

sleepers  from  the  seats. 


SORRENTO     • 

MIDWAY  betwixt  the  present  and  the  past  — 
Naples  and  Picstuiti  —  look !  Sorrento  lies : 

Ulysses  built  it,  and  the  Sirens  cast 

Their  spell  upon  the  shore,  the  sea,  the  skies. 

If  thou  hast  dreamed,  in  any  dream  of  thine, 
How  Paradise  appears,  or  those  Elysian 

Immortal  meadows  which  the  gods  assign 
Unto  the  pure  of  heart,  —  behold  thy  vision ! 

These  waters,  they  are  blue  beyond  belief, 

And  England's  emerald  meads  are  matched  by 
these ; 

The  sun  —  't  is  Italy's ;  here  winter's  brief 
And  gentle  visit  hardly  chills  the  breeze. 

Here  Tasso  dwelt,  and  here  inhaled  with  spring 
The  breath  of  passion  and  the  soul  of  song. 

Here  young  Boccaccio  plumed  his  early  wing, 
Thenceforth  to  soar  above  the  vulgar  throng. 
115 


110  SORRENTO 

All  charms  of  contrast,  every  nameless  grace 
That  lives  in  outline,  harmony,  or  hue, 

So  heighten  all  the  romance  of  the  place, 
That  the  rapt  artist  maddens  at  the  view, 

And  then  despairs,  and  throws  his  pencil  by, 
And  sits  all  day  and  looks  upon  the  shore 

And  the  calm  ocean  with  a  languid  eye, 
As  though  to  labor  were  a  law  no  more. 

Voluptuous  coast !  no  wonder  that  the  proud 
Imperial  Roman  found  in  yonder  isle 

Some  sunshine  still  to  gild  Fate's  gathering  cloud 
And  lull  the  storm  of  conscience  for  a  while. 

What  new  Tiberius,  tired  of  lust  and  life, 

May  rest  him  here  to  give  the  world  a  truce,  — 

A  little  truce  from  perjury  and  strife, 
Justice  adulterate  and  power's  misuse  ? 

Might   the    gross    Bourbon  —  he   that  sleeps   in 

spite 

Of  red  Vesuvius  ever  in  his  eye, 
Yet,  if  he  wake,  should  tremble  at  its  light, 

As  't  were  Heaven's  vengeance,  promised  from 
on  high  — 


SORRENTO  117 

Might  he,  or  any  of  Oppression's  band, 
Sit  here  and  learn  the  lesson  of  the  scene, 

Peace  might  return  to  many  a  bleeding  land, 
And  men  grow  just  again,  and  life  serene. 


HUDSON   RIVER 

RIVERS  that  roll  most  musical  in  song 
Are  often  lovely  to  the  mind  alone ; 

The  wanderer  muses,  as  he  moves  along 

Their  vacant  banks,  on  glories  not  their  own. 

When,  to  give  substance  to  his  boyhood's  dreams, 
He  leaves  his  land,  far  countries  to  survey, 

Oft  must  he  think,  in  greeting  foreign  streams, 
"Their  names  alone  are  beautiful,  not  they." 

If  chance  he  mark  the  dwindled  Arno  pour 
A  tide  more  meagre  than  his  native  Charles ; 

Or  view  the  Rhone  when  summer's  heat  is  o'er, 
Subdued  and  stagnant  in  the  fen  of  Aries ; 

Or  when  he  sees  the  slimy  Tiber  fling 
Ills  sullen  tribute  at  the  feet  of  Koine, 

Oft  to  his  thought  must  partial  memory  bring 
More  noble  waves,  without  renown,  at  home; 

Now  let  him  climb  the  Catskill,  to  behold 
The  lordly  Hudson  marching  to  the  main, 
118 


HUDSON  RIVER  119 

And  say  what  bard,  in  any  land  of  old, 
Had  such  a  river  to  inspire  his  strain. 

Along  the  Rhine,  gray  battlements  and  towers 
Declare  what  robbers  once  the  realm  Assessed ; 

But  here  Heaven's  handiwork  surpassed*  ours, 
And  man  has  hardly  more  than  built  his  nest. 

No  storied  castle  overawes  these  heights, 

Nor  antique  arches  check  the  current's  play,. 

No  mouldering  architrave  the  mind  invites 
To  dream  of  deities  long  panned  away. 

But  cliffs,  unaltered  from  their  primal  form 
Since  the  subsiding  of  the  deluge,  rise 

Above  the  lightnings  of  the  midway  storm, 
While  far  below  the  skill  securely  plies. 

And  these  deep  woods  forever  have  remained 
Touched  by  no  axe,  by  no  proud  owner  nursed  ; 

As   now  they   look,    they   looked   when    Pharaoh 

reigned, 
Lineal  descendants  of  creation's  first. 

Thou  Scottish  Tweed,  a  sacred  streamlet  now  ! 
Since    thy    last    minstrel    laid   him    down   to 
die, 


120  HUDSON  RIVER 

Where  through  the  casement  of  his  chamber  thou 
Didst  mix  thy  moan  with  his  departing  sigh, 

A  single  stretch  of  Hudson's  ampler  hills 
Might  furnish  forests  for  the  whole  of  thine, 

Hide  in  thick  shade  all  1  lumber's  feeding  rills, 
And  darken  all  the  fountains  of  the  Tyne. 

Imperial  Thames  !  —  could  all  his  riches  buy, 
To   gild    the   strand  which  London  loads  with 
gold, 

Sunshine  so  bright,  such  purity  of  sky, 
As  bless  thy  sultry  season  and  thy  cold  ? 

No  tales,  we  know,  are  chronicled  of  thee 

In  ancient  scrolls ;  no  deeds  of  doubtful  claim 

Have  hung  a  history  on  every  tree, 

And  given  each  rock  its  fable  and  a  fame. 

But  neither  here  hath  any  conqueror  trod, 
Nor  grim  invader  from  barbarian  climes ; 

No  horrors  feigned  of  giant  or  of  god 

Pollute  thy  stillness  with  recorded  crimes. 

Here  never  yet  have  happy  fields  laid  waste, 
The  ravished  harvest  and  the  blasted  fruit, 

The  cottage  ruined  and  the  shrine  defaced, 
Tracked  the  foul  passage  of  the  feudal  brute, 


HUDSON  RIVER  121 

"  Yet,  O  Antiquity !  "  the  stranger  sighs, 

u  Scenes  wanting  thee  soon  pull  upon  the  view ; 

The  soul's  indifference  dulls  the  sated  eyes, 
Where  all  is  fair  indeed  —  but  all  is  new." 

False  thought!  is  age  to  crumbling  walls  confined? 

To  Grecian  fragments  and  Egyptian  bones? 
Hath  Time  no  monuments  to  raise  the  mind, 

More  than  old  fortresses  and  sculptured  stones  ? 

Call  not  this  new  which  is  the  only  land 

That  wears  unchanged  the  same  primeval  face 

Which,  when  just  dawning  from  its  Maker's  hand, 
Gladdened  the  first  great  grandsire  of  our  race. 

Nor  did  Euphrates  with  an  earlier  birth 

Glide   past   green   Eden  towards  the  unknown 
south, 

Than  Hudson  broke  upon  the  infant  earth, 

And  kissed  the  ocean  with  his  nameless  mouth. 

Twin-born  with  Jordan,  Ganges,  and  the  Nile ! 

Thebes  and  the  Pyramids  to  thee  are  young ; 
Oh !  had  thy  waters  burst  from  Britain's  isle, 

Till  now,  perchance,  they  had  not  flowed  unsung. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  OBELISK 

Combien  d'hommea  ont  regard  d  cette  ombre  en  Egypto  et  & 
Rome  ?  —  CHATEAUBRIAND. 

HOMEWARD  turning  from  the  music  which  had 

'wildered  so  my  brain, 
That  my  way  I  scarce  remembered  to  the  Quirinal 

again,  — 

Not  unwilling  to  forget  it  underneath  a  moon  so  fair, 
In  a  solitude  so  sacred,  and  so  summer-like  an  air,  — 
By  the  shore  I  came,  of  Tiber,  little  conscious  where 

I  stood, 
Till  I  marked  the  yellow  trembling  of  the  light 

upon  the  flood. 
.* 
Tetltered  near,  some  broken  barges  hid  the  wave's 

august  repose ; 
Petty  sheds  of  humble  dealers  nigh  the  Campus 

^   Martins  rose ; 
Hardly  could  the  dingy  Thamis,  when  his  tide  is 

ebbing  low, 
Life's  dull  scene  in  colder  colors  to  the  homesick 

exile  show. 

122 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  OBELISK       123 

Winding  from  the  vulgar  prospect,  through  a  laby 
rinth  of  lanes, 

Forth  I  stood  upon  the  Corso,  where  its  greatness 
Ivome  retains. 

Yet  it  was  not  ancient  glory,  though  the  muTnight 
radiance  fell 

Soft  on  many  a  princely  mansion,  many  a  dome's 
majestic  swell ; 

Though,  from  some  hushed  corner  gushing,  oft  a 
modern  fountain  gleamed, 

Where  the  marble  and  the  waters  in  their  fresh 
ness  equal  seemed : 

What  though  open  courts  unfolded  columns  of 
Corinthian  mould  ? 

Beautiful  it  was,  —  but  altered  !  naught  bespake 
the  Koine  of  old. 

So,  regardless  of  the  grandeur,  passed  I  towards 
the  Northern  Gate ; 

All  around  were  shining  gardens,  —  churches  glit 
tering,  yet  sedate, 

HeaveHly  bright  the  broad  enclosure !  but  the 
overwhelming  silence  brought 

Stillness  to  mine  own  heart's  beating,  with  a  mo 
ment's  turn  of  thought, 


124       THE  SHADOW  OF  THE   OBELISK 

And  it  startled  me  to  notice  I  was  walking  una 
ware 

O'er  the  Obelisk's  tall  shadow  on  the  pavement  of 
the  square. 

Ghost-like  seemed  it  to  address  me,  and  conveyed 
me  for  a  while 

Backward,  through  a  thousand  ages,  to  the  bor 
ders  of  the  Nile, 

Where  the  centuries  watched  its  creeping  from  the 
morn  when  it  begun, 

O'er  the  stones  perchance  of  Memphis,  or  the 
City  of  the  Sun. 

Kingly  turrets  looked  upon  it,  pyramids  and  sculp 
tured  fanes ; 

Now  the  sand  is  king  o'er  Pharaoh,  but  the  shadow 
still  remains. 

Out  of  Egypt  came  the  trophy,  from  old  empire 

to  the  new ; 
Here  the  eternal  apparition  met  the  millions'  daily 

view. 
Virgil's  foot  has  touched  it  often  ;  it  hath  kissed 

Oetavia's  face  ; 
Koyal  chariots  have  rolled  o'er  it,  in  the  frenzy  of 

the  race, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE   OBELISK       1:25 

When  the  strong,  the  swift,  the  valiant,  mid  the 

thronged  arena  strove, 
In  the  days  of  good  Augustus,  and  the  dynasty  of 

Jove. 

Herds   are   feeding    in    the    Forum,   as    in    old 

Kvander's  time ; 
Tumbled  from  the  steep  Tarpeian  all  the  towers 

that  sprung  sublime. 
Strange  !  that  what  seemed  most  ineonstant  should 

the  most  abiding  prove  ; 
Strange  !  that  what  is  hourly  moving  no  mutation 

can  remove ; 
lluined    lies   the    cirque!    the   chariots   long   ago 

have  ceased  to  roll  ; 
Even  the  Obelisk  is  broken,  —  but  the  shadow  still 

is  whole. 

What  is  fame!  if  mightiest  empire  leave  so  little 

mark  behind, 
I  low  much  less  must  heroes  hope  for,  in  the  wreck 

of  humankind ! 
Less  than  even  this  darksome    picture,   which  1 

tread  beneath  my  feet, 
Copied  by  a  lifeless  moonbeam  on  the  pebbles  of 

the  street: 


120        THE  SHADOW  OF  THE   OBELISK 

Head  the  name  upon  the  base  there,  —  most  of  all 

Home's  names  renowned, 
Cresar !  —  what    left    lie    behind   him,   save   the 

shadow  of  a  sound  ? 


LA  PINETA   DISTRUTTA 

.  > 

u  La  tlivinu  foresta  HJM-SSJI  «•  viva 

Per  cui  K*  fronde,  treinolamlo  pronte, 

Tutte  quante  piegavano  .  .  . 
Null  |x  i o  dal  lor  rsst-r  diitto  sj.,n tc 

' Fault),  die  «;li  uup'lletti  jx  r  !>•  chile 

Lasi-ia-sser  iV  oj>eraiv  oj^ni  lor  arte : 
Ma  eon  plena  lcti/ia  1'  ure  priiue, 

Ctuilandu,  ricuvifruo  iatra  le  foglie, 

Che  t t-iif  van  burduue  alle  sue  rime  ; 
Tal.  <|iial  (H  raiuu  in  rauio  si  raia-o^lie 

Per  la  pinet-i  in  sul  lito  ill  Chiasmi 

Quantl'  Eulu  Scirroceo  fuor  disciu^lie." 

Vuryutoriv,  Canto  xxviii. 


FAREWELL,  KavcnnaV  forest !  and  farewell 
For  aye  through  coming  centuries  to  the  sound, 

Over  blue  Adria,  of  the  lyric  pines, 
And  Chiassi's  bird-song  keeping  burden  sweet 

To  their  low  moan  as  once  to  Dante's  lines, 
Which  when  my  step  first  felt  Italian  ground 

I  strove  to  follow,  carried  by  the  spell 
Of  that  sad  Florentine  whose  very  street 

127 


128  LA   PINETA    DISTRUTTA 

(At  morn  and  midnight)  where  lie  used  to  dwell 
My  father  bade  me  pace  with  reverent  feet. 

Some  rapid  spirit,  misapprehending  this, 
Will  say,  k*  Pereliance  our  imbeeile  prefers 

Pine   woods   to   railways.1'     What!   the  living 

trees 
To  the  dead  sleepers  of  the  vulgar  track? 

Yes ;  if  men  find  in  business  all  their  bliss, 
And  if  our  Harvard  Academe  so  errs 

In -counting  Cicero  something  more  than  cheese 
And  Virgil's  "Gallua  "  better  than  the  clack 

Of  Brockton  boot-shops  and  the  lasts  of  Lynn, 
Then  let  men  cease  a  little  from  their  brag 

Of  "  rccti  cultus  ruboi'iint."     Go  spin 
The  sooner  to  destruction  with  spread  flag, 
Fools'  commonwealth  !  —  and  trot  thyself  to  death 

With  speed,  and  speed,  but  never  once  God-speed  ! 
Because  our  age,  like  Judas,  bears  the  bag, 
And  every  scholar  needs  must  bate  his  breath 

If  any  black-thumbed  boor  waxed  rich  precede. 
Pint  us  hath  made  God's  image  a  machine 

For  minting  dollars  ;  and  the  nobler  art, 
Dante's,  Boceaeeio's,  Dry  den's,  Byron's,  mine, 

Seems  for  its  value  in  the  public  mart 
Less  than  the  song  was  of  Ravenna's  pine. 


LETTER  FROM   AMERICA  TO  A   FRIEND 
IN  TUSCANY 

ON  the  rough  Bracco's  top,  at  break  of  day, 
J  ligh  o'er  that  gulf  which  bounds  the  Genoese, 

Since  thou  and  I  pursued  our  mountain  way, 
Twenty  Decembers  have  disrobed  the  trees. 

Charmed  by  the  glowing  earth  and  golden  sky, 
In  Arno's  vale  you  made  yourself  a  nest ; 

There  perched  in  peace  and  bookish  ease,  while  I, 
In  love  with  Freedom,  sought  her  in  the  West. 

And  here,  amid  remembrances  that  throng 

Thicker  than  blossoms  in  the  new-born  June, 
Thine  ehie'tty  claims  the  token  of  a  song 

That  still,  at  least,  my  heart  remains  in  t UK,  . 

'.    »i 

But  who  can  sing  amid  this  roar  of  streets, 
This  crash  of  engines  and  discordant  mills, 

Where  even  in  Solitude's  most  lone  retreats 

Some  factory  drowns  the  music  of  the  rills?    \s 


129 


130  LETTER  FROM   AMERICA 

True,  Nature  here  hath  donned  her  gala  robe, 
Rich  in  all  charms,  —  bland,  savage,  and  sub 
lime, — 

Within  one  realm  enfolding  half  the  globe, 
Flowers  of  all  soils,  and  fruits  of  every  clime. 

But  yet  no  bard,  with  consecrating  touch, 
Hath  made  the  scene  a  nobler  mood  inspire; 

The  sullen  Puritan,  the  sensual  Dutch, 

Proved  but  a  barren  fosterage  for  the  lyre. 

Here  by  the  ploughman,  as  with  daily  tread 
He  tracks  the  furrows  of  his  virgin  ground, 

Dark  locks  of  hair,  and  thigh-bones  of  the  dead, 
Spear-heads,  and   skulls,  and   arrow-heads   arc 
found. 

On  such  memorials  unconcerned  we  gaze ; 
No  trace  returning  of  the  <dow  divine 

O  O 

AV herewith,  dear  Walter  !  in  our  Eton  days 
We  eyed  a  fragment  from  the  Palatine. 

Cellini's  workmanship  eould  nothing  add, 
Nor  the  Pope's  blessing,  nor  a  case  of  gold, 

To  the  strange  value  every  pebble  had 

O'er  which  perhaps  the  Tiber's  wave  had  rolled. 


TO  A    FRIEND  IN  TUSCANY  131 

A  like  enchantment  all  thy  land  pervades, 

Mellows  the  sunshine,  softens  autumn's  breeze, 

O'erhangs    the   mouldering    town,  and    chestnut 

shades, 
And  glows  and  sparkles  in  her  storied  seas. 

No  such  a  spell  the  charmed  adventurer  guides 
Who  seeks  those  ruins  hid  in  Yucatan, 

Where  through  the  tropic  forest,  silent  glides, 
By  crumbled  fane  and  idol,  slow  Copan. 

There,  as  the  weedy  pyramid  he  climbs, 

Or  views,  mid  groves  that  rnnkly  wave  above, 

The  work  of  nameless  hands  hi  unknown  times, 
Much   wakes   his   wonder  —  nothing  stirs  his 
love. 

Art's  rude  beginnings,  wheresoever  found, 
The  same  dull  chord  of  feeling  faintly  strike ; 

The  Druid's  pillar,  and  the  Indian  mound, 
And  Uxmal's  monuments,  are  mute  alike. 

And  here,  although  the  gorgeous  year  hath  brought 

Crimson  October's  beautiful  decay, 
Seldom  this  loveliness  inspires  a  thought 

Beyond  the  marvels  of  the  fleeting  day. 


13:2  LETTER  FROM  AMERICA 

For  here  the  Present  overpowers  the  Past ; 

No  recollections  to  these  woods  belong, 
O'er  which  no  minstrelsy  its  veil  hath  cast, 

To  rouse  our  worship,  or  supply  my  song. 

But  these  will  come  ;  the  necromancer  Age 
Shall  round  the  wilderness  his  glory  throw ; 

Hudson  shall  murmur  through  the  poet's  page, 
A.nd  in  his  numbers  more  superbly  How. 

Enough!  — 't  is  more  than  midnight  by  the  clock  ; 

Manhattan  dreams  of  dollars,  all  abed  : 
With  you,  dear  Walter,  't  is  the  crow  of  cock, 

And  o'er  Fiesole  the  skies  are  red. 

Good-night !  yet  stay  —  both  longitudes  to  suit, 
Your  own  returning,  and  my  absent  light, 

Thus  let  me  bid  our  mutual  salute  ; 

To  you  buon-yiorno  —  for  myself  good-night ! 


K08LIN  CHAPEL 

THY  beauty,  Hosliu,  woke  a  loftier  thought  — 
Those  friars  are   gone,  but  not  the  truths  they 

taught ; 
The  mind  that  planned  thee,  and  the  monks  that 

reared, 

Censers,  bells,  candles  —  all  have  disappeared : 
Hut  the  same  spirit  hovers  round  thy  walls 
That  hallows  Westminster,  pervades  St.  Paul's, 
Or  makes  the  pile  that  sanetifies  the  Ouse 
A  plaee  of  pilgrimage  for  my  small  muse. 

When  Scotland's  .poet  led  his  poet-guest 
To  thee  from  Hawthorndcn's  romantic  nest, 
Thou  wast  a  wreck^  and  Johnson's  learned  eye 
Read  in  thy  stones  but  barbarism  gone  by. 
Now  from  a  thousand  leagues  beyond  the  sea 
Men  come  to  wonder  at  and  study  thee, 
And  maids  of  Knglish  tongue  but  foreign  birth 
Kneel  on  thy  Hags  and  kiss  thy  sue  red  earth. 

And  when  thy  second  ruin  shall  come  round 
And  not  one  stone  be  on  another  found, 

133 


134  ROSLIN  CHAPEL 

The  faith  which  hung  those  arches  and  restored, 
Shall  still  raise  temples  to  the  living  Lord. 
The  creed  of  immortality  is  thine, 
Whose  life  depends  not  on  one  mouldering  shrine. 
Your  gods,  ye  Greeks,  died  long  before  your  fanes : 
Churches  may  crumble,  but  Christ's  word  remains. 


BY   THE    SUDBURY 

HARDLY  who  bends  o'er  Wayland  bridge 
Can  tell  which  side  the  current  flows ; 

In  vain  you  mark  the  swaying  sedge  — 
This  way  and  that  each  eddy  goes. 

I  drop  a  leaflet  on  the  wave  — 

A  crimson  page  from  autumn's  book  — 
Did  ever  thing  so  misbehave? 

For  less  it  moves  as  more  I  look ! 

; 

They  say  the  Sudbury  seeks  the  sea, 
But  ocean  to  the  eastward  lies ; 

Tliis  dallying  streamlet  seems  to  be 

Bound  for  the  spring  whence  it  had  rise, 

And  lingers  as  it  loved  the  meads 
And  mossy  rocks  where  cattle  stray 

More  than  those  dank,  salt-smelling  weeds 
And  breakers  of  the  distant  bay  ; 

The  lilied  banks,  the  frequent  gifts 
Of  apple  blossoms  drifting  down, 
135 


136  BY  THE  SUDBURY 

More  than  yon  cold  and  gravelly  clifts, 
Where  vessels  wreck  and  seamen  drown  ; 

And  shuns  to  leave  the  sunny  slope 
Where  maples,  nodding  o'er  the  brook, 

Their  branches  to  the  oriole  ope 

And  yield  the  summer  thrush  a  nook. 

Is  it  not  so  with  us  ?     We  dread 
In  the  great  sea  of  love  to  lose 

Our  individual  being,  dead 
To  present  images,  and  choose 

A  life  uncertain,  full  of  pain, 

Rather  than  on  that  unknown,  dark, 

Awful,  unfathomable  main 

Put  forth  in  such  a  fragile  bark, 

Dismantled  of  all  tender  ties 

That  i.uike  us  feel  content,  secure, 

And  through  life's  aches  ami  agonies 
Bestow  the  courage  to  endure. 

But  One  is  watching  o'er  the  deep, 
As  on  the  rivulet.     We  know 

lie  giveth  his  beloved  sleep  — 
A  slumber  that  is  end  of  woe. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  DRINKING  FOUNTAIN 
AT  WAYLAND 

You  that  from  cups  of  guy  champagne 

Or  coffee  come,  to  take  a  turn 
Across  our  pleasant  Sudbury  plain 

To  where  the  Wayside  fagots  burn, 

Here  let  your  lordly  palfreys  drink, 
I  lere  give  thy  panting  steed  a  rest, 

That  on  your  pillow  ye  may  think, 

fct  I  have  remembered  Heaven's  behest: 

*A  4  Do  unto  others  what  ye  would 

Another  one  should  unto  you," 
And  let  thy  charity  include 

Thy  neighbor  and  his  horses,  too. 
137 


MARTIAL  ODK 

WRITTEN    FOR    THE    ANCIKNT  AND   HONORABLE 
ARTILLERY    COMPANY 

—  "  maims  lia-t-  iuiiuica  tyronnis, 
Ease  petit  placidam  sub  libertate  quietem." 

ALUKIINON  SIDNEY. 

ANCIENT  of  days !     Thy  prophets  old 
Declared  Thee  also  Lord  of  war ; 

And  sacred  chroniclers  have  told 

Of  kings  whom  Thou  didst  battle  for. 

Ancient  and  honorable  men 

Have  always  kept  the  sword  in  sight, 
Against  a  day  when  purchased  pen 

Or  venal  voices  poison  right. 

If  kings  oppress  or  disobey 

Their  people's  will,  the  axe  must  fall ; 
Or  should  a  people  madly  stray 

From  judgment  in  their  council-hall, 


138 


MARTIAL   ODE  139 

Till  wisdom,  wavering,  yields  at  length, 

And  love  is  lost  on  either  side, 
Thy  dread  arbitrament,  O  Strength ! 

Every  strong  nation  must  abide. 

When  Heaven's  artillery  shakes  the  skies 
Death  and  wild  ruin  follow  fast, 

That  purer  elements  may  rise 
Soon  as  the  storm  is  overpast ; 

When  armies  by  Potomac's  flood 

Menaced  the  fabric  of  the  free, 
Our  eagle's  young  ones  sucked  up  blood, 

And  where  the  slain  are  there  was  She. 

Now  London  sends  her  loyal  sons 

To  grace  our  gathering :  clarion  !  fife ! 

Sound  England  welcome  !  drums  and  guns ! 
King  notes  of  gladness —  not  of  strife. 

That  placid  quiet  all  men  seek, 

Long  may  it  crown  a  land  restored  ! 

But  Massachusetts !  be  not  weak, 
If  wronged,  to  seek  it  with  a  sword. 


GUY   FAWKES   DAY 

AT  THK.  OLD   IIOUSK   IN   SUDBUKY 

ONE    fifth   of    November,   when    meadows    were 

brown, 
And  the  crimson  woods  withered  round  Sudbury 

town, 
Four  lads  from  that  city  which  Holmes  calls  the 

best, 
At  an  old  tavern  met  for  a  whole  day  of  rest. 

There  was  Henry  and  Austin   and  William  and 

John, 
And  the  glasses  went  round  as  the  oak-wood  went 

on, 

And  the  spirit  was  kindly,  the  water  was  hot. 
Why,  then,  should  Guy  Fawkes  and  his  day  be 

forgot  ? 

He  was  known  in  this  tavern  of  old,  I  expect, 
Though  his  name,  like  the,  turnpike,  has  come  to 
neglect ; 

140 


GUY  FAWKES  DAY  141 

And  I  gue$*  there  was  loyalty  under  this  roof  — - 
See  !     Her  Majesty's  picture  remains  for  a  proof. 

But  distinction  is  lost,  —  the  Queen  's  nobody  now, 
And  a  sovereign  is  not  worth  a  sixpence  to  Howe, 
Though  his  fathers  before  him,  the  constant  old 

carles, 
By  the  name  of  their  monarch  did  christen  the 

Charles. 

There  be  names  on  the  window-panes  written  with 

rings, 
When  the  gentles  wore  diamonds  and  all  was  the 

king's ; 

When  Joel  and  I  lira  in,  as  still  they  should  do, 
Served  the  punch,  my  dear  Henry,  to  persons  like 

you. 

But  the  scutcheon  is  faded  that  hangs  on  the  wall, 
And  the  hearth  looks  forlorn  in  the  desolate  hall ; 
And  the  floor  that  has  bent  with  the  minuet's  tread, 
It  is  like  a  church  pavement,  —  the  dancers  are 
dead. 

Yet  we  summoned  them  back,  and  recalled  ancient 

times, 
And  we  roused  the  old  Papist,  repeating  his  rhymes, 


142  UUY  FA  \VKES  DAY 

And,  to  help  ou  the  humor,  each  man,  with  his 

drink, 
Gave  the  best  match  for  Guido  of  whom  ho  could 

think. 

Well,  we  thought  of  all  scandalous  names  that 

had  been, 

Cain,  Catiline,  Borgia,  —  the  bywords  of  sin, — 
Saint  Dominie  Guzman,  Marat,  Machiavel,  — 
Though  the    splendor  of  that  one  we  reeognized 

well. 

Then  Austin  propounded  —  a  health  to, old  Nol ! 

And  those  Houndheaded  rogues  whom  our  speak 
ers  extol ; 

And  one  mentioned  Arnold,  and  one  Aaron  Burr, 

And  that  Empress  was  named  in  the  .country  of 
fur. 

But  we  tired  of  such  folk,  so,  to  sweeten  our  toast 
Gave    that    noblest   of   bards   Massachusetts   can 

boast ! 
Famous  now  is  this  house,  in  whose  halls  he  hath 

been, 
For  his  muse  hath  made  sacred  old  Sudbury  Inn ! 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  SUDBURY  TWENTY 
YEARS  AFTERWARDS 

"Our  re vi- Is  now  are  ended."  —  Ttmptttt. 

THUNDER-CLOUDS  may  roll  above  him, 
And  the  bolt  may  rend  his  oak : 

Lymau  lieth  where  HO  longer 

He  shall  dread  the  lightning  stroke. 

Never  to  his  father's  hostel 

Comes  a  kinsman  or  u  guest ; 
Midnight  calls  for  no  more  candles : 

House  and  landlord  both  have  rest. 

Adam's  love  and  Adam's  trouble 
Arc  a  scarce-remembered  tale ; 

No  more  wine-cups  brightly  bubble ; 
No  more  healths,  nor  cakes,  nor  ale. 

On  the  broken  hearth  a  dotard 
{Sits,  and  fancies  foolish  things ; 
143 


144          THE  OLI>  HOUSE  IN  SUDBURY 

And  the  poet  weaves  romances, 
^    Which  the  maiden  fondly  sings, 

All  about  the  ancient  hostel 
With  its  legends  and  its  oaks, 

'And  the  quaint  old-bachelor  brothers, 
And  their  minstrelsy  and  jokes. 

No  man  knows  them  any  longer : 
All  are  gone,  and  I  remain 

Heading,  as  it  were,  mine  epitaph 
On  the  rainbow-colored  pane. 

Blessings  on  them,  dear  initials! 

Henry  W.,  Daniel  T., 
E.  and  L. :  —  I  '11  not  interpret ; 

Let  men  wonder  who  they  be. 

Some  are  in  their  graves,  and  many 
Buried  in  their  books  and  cares ; 

In  the  tropics,  in  Archangel : 

Our  thoughts  are  no  longer  theirs. 

God  have  mercy  !  all  are  sinful ; 

Christ,  conform  our  lives  to  thine  ! 
Keep  us  from  all  strife,  ill-speaking, 

Envy,  and  the  curse  of  wine. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  SUDBURY        145 

Fetch  my  steed  !  I  cannot  linger. 

Buckley,  quick !  I  must  away. 
Good  old  groom,  take  thou  this  nothing ; 

Millions  eould  not  make  me  stay. 


MY  SUDBURY  MISTLETOE 

LONDON,  CHRISTMAS   PAY,  MDCCCLXXI 

THIS  hallowed  stem  the  Druids  once  adored, 
And  now  I  wreathe  it  round  my  bleeding  Lord ; 
So  might  my  spirit  around  his  image  twine, 
And  iind  support,  as  in  its  oak  a  vine ! 

"  I  am  the  Vine,"  lie  said  ;  Lord,  then  let  me 
Be  just  a  tendril  clinging  to  the  tree 
Where  the  Jews  nailed  Thee  bodily,  to  grow 
Fruit  for  all  fainting  souls  that  grope  to-low. 

May  this  green  hope  that  in  my  heart  is  born 
Blossom  before  another  Christmas  morn  ! 
Then  my  weird  mistletoe  I  '11  cast  away, 
And  hang  up  lilies  to  record  the  day. 

146 


THE  WILLEY   HOUSE 

A   BALLAD   OF   THE   WHITE    I1ILL8 
I 

COME,  children,  put  your  baskets  down, 
And  let  the  blushing  berries  be ; 

Sit  here  and  wreathe  a  laurel  crown, 
And  if  I  win  it,  give  it  me. 

'T  is  afternoon  —  it  is  July  — 

The  mountain  shadows  grow  and  grow ; 
Your  time  of  rest,  and  mine  is  nigh  — 

The  moon  was  rising  long  ago. 

While  yet  on  old  Chocorua's  top 

The  lingering  sunlight  says  farewell, 

Your  purple-fingered  labor  stop, 
And  hear  a  tale  I  hi(ve  to  tell. 

ii 

You  see  that  cottage  in  the  glen, 
Yon  desolate,  forsaken  shed, 
147 


148  THE  W1LLEY  HOUSE 

Whose  mouldering  threshold,  now  and  then, 
Only  a  few  stray  travelers  tread. 

No  smoke  is  curling  from  its  roof, 
At  eve  no  cattle  gather  round, 

No  neighbor  now,  with  dint  of  hoof, 
Prints  his  glad  visit  on  the  ground* 

A  happy  home  it  was  of  yore : 

At  morn  the  flocks  went  nibbling  by, 

And  Farmer  Willey,  at  his  door, 

Oft  made  their  reckon  ing  with  his  eye. 

Where  yon  rank  alder-trees  have  sprung, 
And  birches  cluster,  thick  and  tall, 

Once  the  stout  apple  overhung, 

With  his  red  gifts,  the  orchard  wall. 

Right  fond  and  pleasant  in  their  ways 
The  gentle  Willey  people  were ; 

I  knew  them  in  those  peaceful  days, 
And  Mary  —  every  one  knew  her. 

Ill 

Two  summers  now  had  seared  the  hills, 
Two  years  of  little  rain  or  dew ; 

High  up  the  courses  of  the  rills 

The  wild-rose  and  the  raspberry  grew : 


THE  W1LLEY  HOUSE  149 

The  mountain  sides  were  cracked  and  dry, 
And  frequent  fissures  on  the  plain, 

Like  mouths,  gaped  open  to  the  sky, 

As  though  the  parched  earth  prayed  for  rain. 

One  sultry  August  afternoon, 

Old  Willey,  looking  toward  the  west, 

Said,  "  We  shall  hear  the  thunder  soon : 
Oh !  if  it  bring  us  rain,  't  is  blest." 

And  even  with  his  word,  a  smell 

Of  sprinkled  fields  passed  through  the  air, 
And  from  a  single  cloud  there  fell 

A  few  large  drops  —  the  rain  was  there. 

Ere  set  of  sun  a  thunder-stroke 

( jave  signal  to  the  floods  to  rise  ; 
Then  the  great  seal  of  heaven  was  broke, 

Then  burst  the  gates  that  barred  the  skies ! 

While  from  the  west  the  clouds  rolled  on, 
And  from  the  nor' west  gathered  fast, 

We  '11  have  enough  of  rain  anon," 
Said  Willey,  "  if  this  deluge  last." 

For  all  these  cliffs  that  stand  sublime 
Around,  like  solemn  priests  appeared, 


150  THE  WILLEY  HOUSE  . 

Gray  Druids  of  the  olden  time, 

Each  with  his  white  and  streaming  beard, 

Till  in  one  sheet  of  seething  foam 

The  mingled  torrents  joined  their  might ; 

But  in  the  Willeys*  quiet  home 

Was  naught  but  silence  and  u  Good-night !  " 

For  soon  they  went  to  their  repose, 
And  in  their  beds,  all  safe  and  warm, 

Saw  not  how  fast  the  waters  rose, 
Heard  not  the  growing  of  the  storm. 

But  just  before  the  stroke  of  ten, 
Old  Willey  looked  into  the  night, 

And  called  upon  his  two  hired  men, 
And  woke  his  wife,  who  struck  a  light, 

Though  her  hand  trembled,  as  she  heard 
The  horses  whinnying  in  the  stall, 

And  —  "  Children  !  n  was  the  only  word 
That  woman  from  her  lips  let  fall. 

"  Mother  !  "  the  frightened  infants  cried, 

"  What  is  it  ?  has  a  whirlwind  come  ?  " 
Wildly  the  weeping  mother  eyed 
Each  little  darling,  but  was  dumb. 


THE  W1LLEY  HOUSE 

A  sound !  as  though  a  mighty  gale 
Some  forest  from  its  hold  had  riven, 

Mixed  with  a  rattling  noise  like  hail! 

God!  art  Thou  raining  rocks  from  heaven? 

A  Hash !     O  Christ !  the  lightning  showed 
The  mountain  moving  from  his  seat! 

Out !  out  into  the  slippery  road  ! 
Into  the  wet  with  naked  feet ! 

No  time  for  dress,  —  for  life  !  for  life ! 

No  time  for  any  word  but  this. 
The  father  grasped  his  boys,  his  wife 

Snatched  her  young  bubo,  —  but  not  to  kiss. 

And  Mary  with  the  younger  girl, 

Barefoot  and  shivering  in  their  smocks, 

Sped  forth  amid  that  angry  whirl 

Of  rushing  waves  and  whelming  rocks. 

For  down  the  mountain's  crumbling  side, 
Full  half  the  mountain  from  on  high 

Came  sinking,  like  the  snows  that  slide 
From  the  great  Alps  about  July. 

And  with  it  went  the  lordly  ash, 
And  with  it  went  the  kingly  pine ; 


THE    WILLEY  HOUSE 

Cedar  and  oak,  amid  the  crash, 

Dropped  down  like  'clippings  of  the  vine. 


Two  rivers  rushed,  —  the  one  that  broke 
His  wonted  bounds  and  drowned  the  land, 

And  one  that  streamed  with  dust  and  smoke, 
A  flood  of  earth,  of  stones  and  sand. 

Then  for  a  time  the  vale  was  dry, 
The  soil  had  swallowed  up  the  wave  ; 

Till  one  star,  looking  from  the  sky, 
A  signal  to  the  tempest  gave  : 

The  clouds  withdrew,  the  storm  was  o'er, 

Bright  Aldebaran  burned  again  ; 
The  buried  river  rose  once  more, 

And  foamed  along  his  gravelly  glen. 

IV 

At  noon  the  men  of  Con  way  felt 

Some  dreadful  thing  had  chanced  that  night, 
And  those  by  Breton  woods  who  dwelt 

Observed  the  mountain's  altered  height. 

Old  Crawford  and  the  Fabyan  lad 
Came  down  from  Ainmonoosuc  then, 

And  passed  the  Notch,  —  ah  !  strange  and  sad 
It  was  to  see  the  ravaged  glen. 


THE  W1LLEY  HOUSE  153 

But  having  toiled  for  miles,  in  doubt, 
With  many  a  risk  of  limb  and  neck, 

They  saw,  and  hailed  with  joyful  shout 
The  Willey  House  amid  the  wreck. 

That  avalanche  of  stones  and  sand, 

Remembering  mercy  iii  its  wrath, 
Had  parted,  and  on  either  hand 

Pursued  the  ruin  of  its  path. 

And  there  upon  its  pleasant  slope, 

The  cottage,  like  a  sunny  isle 
That  wakes  the  shipwrecked  seaman's  hope, 

Amid  that  horror  seemed  to  smile. 

And  still  upon  the  lawn  before, 

The  peaceful  sheep  were  nibbling  nigh ; 

But  Farmer  Willey  at  his  door 

Stood  not  to  count  them  with  his  eye. 

And  in  the  dwelling  —  O  despair  ! 

The  silent  room  !  the  vacant  bed  ! 
The  children's  little  shoes  were  there  — 

But  whither  were  the  children  fled  ? 

That  day  a  woman's  head,  all  gashed,  • 

Its  long  hair  streaming  in  the  flow, 


154  THE  WILLEY  HOUSE 

Went  o'er  the  dam,  and  then  was  dashed 
Among  the  whirlpools  down  below. 

And  farther  down,  by  Saeo  side, 

They  found  the  mangled  forms  of  four, 

Held  in  an  eddy  of  the  tide ; 

But  Mary,  she  was  seen  no  more. 

Yet  never  to  this  mournful  vale 

Shall  any  maid,  in  Summer  time, 
*  Come  without  thinking  of  the  tale 
^     I  now  have  told  yon  in  my  rhyme. 

And  when  the  \Villey  House  is  gone, 
^    And  its  last  rafter  is  decayed, 
Its  history  may  yet  live  on 

In  this  your  ballad  that  I  made. 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE  ORIOLE 

A    FABLE   WITHOUT   A   MORAL 

ROSE  of  Damascus !  rose  of  all ! 
Queen  of  the  roses  of  the  world ! 

The  only  flower  that  ere  his  fall 
Adam  thought  fit  to  pluck  for  Eve, 
As  once  she  lay  in  slumber  curled, 

And  he,  though  half  afraid  to  speak, 
Said,  "  Lovely  being,  by  your  leave, 

Your  husband  gives  you  this  —and  this:" 

Then  laid  a  rose  upon  her  cheek, 

A  damask  rose,  and  kiss. 

The  rose  before  was  not  so  red : 
But  Eve  awoke,  and  such  a  blush, 

With  her  smile  mingling,  overspread 
Her  face  that  instantly  the  flower 
Felt  through  its  veins  new  coloring  rush, 

Till  every  petal  showed  the  stain ! 
And  so  in  the  most  radiant  hour 

Of  midsummer's  resplendent  morn, 
155 


150  THE  ROSE  AND  THE  ORIOLE 

The  queen  of  all  the  rosy  train, 
The  damask  rose,  was  born  ! 

Soon  as  this  .woman,  flower  in  hand, 
Led  Adam  where*  the  strawberries  grew, 

An  oriole  from  a  palm  that  fanned 
These  earliest  lovers,  on  the  rose 
Lighted  ;  and  straight  his  natural  hue 

Of  gold,  that  red  to  orange  turned ! 
Then  the  sly  bird  his  moment  chose, 

Snatched  the  rose  from  her  hand,  and  fled 

Far  as  an  amethyst  cloud  that  burned 

In  the  bright  blue  overhead. 

Now  when  thou  watchest  in  the  west 
The  splendors  of  the  dying  day, 

Think  of  the  damask  rose  that  prest 
Her  check  whom  we  our  Mother  call, 
As  dreaming  in  her  bower  she  lay. 

Remember,  too,  the  oriole's  theft,  — 
First  theft  that  was,  ere  Adam's  fall, — 
And  in  the  crimson  clouds  behold, 

Unless  thy  heart  all  faith  have  left, 
His  orange  and  his  gold. 


SAINT  VALENTINE'S  DAY 

THIS  day  was  sacred,  once,  to  Pan, 
And  kept  with  song  and  wine ; 

But  when  our  better  creed  began 
*T  was  held  no  more  divine, 

Until  there  came  a  holy  man, 
One  Bishop  Valentine. 

He,  finding,  as  all  good  men  will, 
Much  in  the  ancient  way'   .  . V  ; 

That  was  not  altogether  ill, 
Restored  the  genial  day, 

And  we  the  pagan  fashion  still 
With  pious  hearts  obey. 

Without  this  custom,  all  would  go 

Amiss  in  Love's  affairs; 
All  passion  would  be  poor  dumb  show, 

Pent  sighs,  and  secret  prayers ; 
And  bashful  maids  would  never  know 

What  timid  swain  was  theirs. 
157 


158  SALVT  VALENTINE'S  DAY 

Ah !  many  things  with  mickle  pains 
Without  reward  are  done  ; 

A  thousand  poets  rack  their  brains 
For  her  who  loves  hut  one ; 

Yea,  many  weary  with  their  strains 
The  nymph  that  cares  for  none. 

Yet,  should  no  faithful  heart  be  faint 
To  give  affection's  sign  ; 

So,  dearest,  let  mine  own  acquaint 
With  its  emotions  —  thine  ; 

And  blessings  on  that  fine  old  saint, 
Good  Bishop  Valentine ! 


HEALTH  AND  WEALTH  AND  LOVE  AND 
LEISURE,  AND  A  HAPPY  NEW  YEAR,  TO 
MY  SWEET  LADYE 

IN  the  fair  blank  that  now,  like  some  new  bay 
In  life's  vague  ocean,  opens  with  to-day, 
Couklst  thou  but  write,  dear  lady,  at  thy  will, 
All  thou  wouldst  choose  of  good,  or  shun  of  ill, 
As  on  this  paper  thou  mayst  fill  the  space 
With  thoughts  and  wishes  gentle  as  thy  face, 
Thou  couldst  not  crowd  the  days  that  are  to  be 
With  happier  fortune  than  I  hope  for  thee. 

For,  if  the  saint  that  keeps  the  book  above 
Which  holds  the  record  of  thy  life  and  love, 
Where  at  one  view  thy  childhood  and  thine  age, 
Thy  past  and  future,  gleam  upon  the  page, 
Should  trust  his  volume  to  my  hand,  and  say, 
Write  for  Augusta  all  you  ask  or  pray, 
All  that  twelve  moons  may  bring  of  peace  and  bliss, 
Then  would  1  register  some  fate  like  this : 

Health,  first  of  all,  that  every  morn  may  find 
The  same  bright  casket  for  the  same  clear  mind, 

159 


160  HEALTH  AND  WEALTH 

And  every  night  bring  such  repose,  that  care 
May  find  no  triumph  in  one  altered  hair. 

Affection  then,  the  same  thou  still  hast  known, 
Such  as  would  shudder  at  a  careless  tone, 
And'  count  it  selfishness  to  have  a  grief 
That  in  thy  sharing  did  not  seek  relief. 

Next  golden  leisure,  to  enjoy  the  sun, 
With  one  to  worship,  and  but  only  one ; 
With  him  to  tread  the  solitude,  and  then 
No  less  securely  try  the  ways  of  men  ; 
To  move  in  crowds,  yet  keep  the  calm  within, 
Still  amid  noise,  and  spotless  amid  sin. 


NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  THE  PEACOCK 

THE  peacock  sits  perched  on  the  roof  all  night, 
And  wakes  up  the  farmhouse  before  't  is  light ; 
But  his  matins  they  suit  not  the  delicate  ear 
Of  the  drowsy  damsels,  that  half  in  fear 
And  half  in  disgust  his  discord  hear. 

If  the  soul's  migration  from  frame  to  frame 
Be  truth,  tell  me  now  whence  the  peacock's  came? 
Say  if  it  had  birth  at  the  musical  close 
Of  a  dying  hyena,  —  or  if  it  arose 
From  a  Puritan  scold  that  sang  psalms  through 
her  nose? 

Well :  a  jackass  there  was  —  but  you  need  not  look 
For  this  fable  of  mine  in  old  JEsop's  book  — 
That  one  complaint  all  his  life  had  whined, 
I  low  Nature  had  been  either  blind  or  unkind 
To  give  him  an  aspect  so  unrefined. 

u  'T  is  cruel,*'  he  groaned,  "  that  I  cannot  escape 
From  the  vile  prison-house  of  this  horrible  shape : 
So  gentle  a  temper  as  mine  to  shut  in 

161 


162  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  THE  PEACOCK 

This  figure  uncouth  and  so  shaggy  a  skin, 

And  then  these  long  ears!  —  it  *s  a  shame  and  a 


sin." 


Good-natured  Jove  his  npbraidings  heard, 
And  changed  the  vain  quadruped  into  a  bird, 
And  garnished  his  plumage  with  many  a  spot 
Of  ineffable  hue,  such  as  earth  wears  not, — 
For  he  dipped  him  into  the  rainbow-pot. 

So  dainty  he  looked  in  his  gold  and  green, 
That  the  monarch  presented  the  bird  to  his  queen, 
Who,  taken  with  colors,  —  as  most  ladies  are,  -— 
Had  him  harnessed  straight  in  her  crystal  car 
Wherein  she  travels  from  star  to  star. 

But  soon  as  his  thanks  the  poor  dissonant  thing 

Began  to  bray  when  lie  strove  to  sing, 

"Poor  creature!"  quoth  Jove,  " spite  of   all  my 

pains 

Your  spirit  shines  out  in  your  donkey  strains ! 
Though  plumed  bright  as  Iris,  the  ass  remains." 

So  you  see,  love,  that  goodness  is  better  than  grace  ; 
For  the  proverb  fails  in  the  peacock's  case, 
Which  says  that  fine  feathers  make  fine  birds  too: 
This  other  old  adage  is  far  more  true,  — 
They  only  are  handsome  that  handsomely  do. 


TO  A  LADY 

WITH   A   HKAD   OF   POPE   PIUS  NINTH 

My  gift  went  freighted  with  a  hope,— 

Slight  bark  upon  a  doubtful  sea ! 
Yet,  under  convoy  of  the  Pope, 
Successful  may  the  venture  be  ; 
For  thus  good  Pius  whispered  me, 
"Mi  fill,  Benedieite!" 

Ilia  blessing  now  I  will  transfer 

To  thee,  although  1  hardly  know 
What  Latin  form  appropriate  were. 
"  Cor  meum  !  "  —  shall  I  call  thee  so  ? 
No,  let  the  learned  language  be 
But,  sweetheart,  Benedieite ! 

Your  cardinals  are  blooming  yet, 

Pride  of  the  brook  !  the  meadow's  gem ! 
So,  ere  his  sun  be  wholly  set, 
I  send,  in  due  return  for. them, 

The  Pope  —  hark,  love,  he  says  to  thee, 
"  My  daughter,  Benedieite  !  " 
163 


164  TO  A  LADY 

Oh,  take  his  blessing,  then,  —  for  ne'er 

Did  evil  come  from  holy  touch  ; 
A  righteous  man's  effectual  prayer, 
As  the  Saint  says,  availeth  much ; 
So,  for  this  once,  a  Papist  be, 
Nor  scorn  his  Beuedicite  ! 


TO  A  LADY 

IN    RETURN   FOR  A  BOOK  OF  MICHEL  ANGELO'S  SONNETS 

"  Nun  ha  1'  ultimo  urtUta  alcun  concetto 
Cir  uu  solo  inurnio  iu  s«-  11011  cirooscriva 
Col  auo  Boverchio,  —  e  solo  a  qttello  arri  vu, 
La  man1  cbe  obbcdisee  all'  im«-llfttu." 

Svnnttto  di  Michel  Anyelo  Buonarroti. 

No  master  artist  e'er  imagines  aught 
That  lies  not  hid,  awaiting  mortal  gaze, 

In  the  rough  marble,  —  if  but  fitly  wrought 
By  one  whose  hand  his  intellect  obeys : 

His  magic  touch  the  stone's  white  silence  wakes, 

And,  lo !  the  god  from  his  long  bondage  breaks : 

Breaks  like  the  blue  morn  from  an  orient  vapor, 
Which  made  the  pilgrim  doubtful  of  the  day; 

Or  like  the  music  from  the  written  paper 
O'er  which  some  poet  lets  his  fancy  play ; 

Like  new-born  April  from  the  winter's  tomb, 

Or  any  joy  that  springs  from  any  gloom. 

Lady !  the  fair  material  of  our  being 
Is  put  before  us,  to  be  carved  at  will : 
165 


160  TO  A   LADY 

Oh !  wisely  work,  with  clear  conception  seeing 

The  perfect  shape  that  shall  reward  thy  skill : 
Something  there  may  be,  cut  from  every  life, 
Something  to  worship  —  whether  saint  or  wife. 

Learn  Patience  first ;  for  Patience  is  the  part 
Of  all  whom  Time  records  among  the  great, 

The  only  gift  I  know,  the  only  art, 

To  strengthen  up  our  frailties  to  our  fate : 

Through  long  endurance  comes  the  martyr  crown 

That  makes  the  hero  Mush  for  his  renown. 

And,  as  by  many  steps,  from  thorn  to  flower, 
The  patient  ]>etals  of  the  rose  recover 

The  hues  anil  fragrance  of  the  golden  hour, 
That  saw  last  summer's  nightingale  her  lover, 

So  may  thy  soul,  if  constancy  be  thine, 

Toil  on  through  trials  till  it  dawn  divine! 


TO  A  HUNGARIAN  LADY  —  HOMEWARD 
BOUND 

O  DOROTHEA!  those  Hungarian  hills 
That  bred  thy  beauty  seem  so  dear  to  me 

That  often  such  a  passionate  longing  thrills 

My  soul  to  see  that  country,  I  could  weep 
To  think  how  loves  are  sundered  by  the  sea ! 

That  age  must  evermore  the  fireside  keep ! 

Ulysses  could  not :  strength  was  giv'n  to  him 
Of  mind  and  body*     Were  1  such  as  he  — 

As  resolute  of  heart,  as  lithe  of  limb  — 
I  too  would  start  as  pilgrim  —  oh,  how  soon ! 

To  see  the  land  whose  brooks  the  Danube  swell, 

Soon  as  that  river  leaves  German ia's  rim, 

By  Buda's  bridge,  by  boats  and  citadel, 
To  seek  the  Kuxine  under  the  new  moon 

That  rules  Byzantium  still,  though  not  for  aye; 
But  since  I  never  may  behold  that  realm, 

Nor  tread  in  June  the  vineyards  of  Tokai, 
I  will  not  let  that  sorrow  overwhelm 

My  spirit  wholly,  but  will  count  it  grace, 
If  I  may  never  breathe  Carpathian  air, 

To  think  of  Hungary,  looking  on  a  face 
And  one  slight  figure  that  was  moulded  there. 

167 


ALLE  SORELLE 

You  nymphs  that  blossom  in  the  shade, 
If  every  flower  that  drinks  the  dew 

The  symbol  be  of  some  fair  maid, 
To  what  shall  I  resemble  you  ? 

Sinee  not  a  fragrance  nor  a  bloom, 
That  makes  the  glory  of  your  fields, 

But  in  its  freshness  or  perfume 

Some  likeness  to  your  beauty  yields. 

One  to  a  chaste  magnolia's  flower, 
Sole  bud  upon  the  virgin  tree, 

I  might  compare  ;  but  scarce  the  power 
To  tell  you  why  belongs  to  me, 

Save  that  her  sunny  presence  wears 
The  radiant  aspect  of  the  South ; 

Long  Summer  days  and  Southern  airs 
Shine  in  her  eyes,  play  round  her  mouth. 

But  you,  to  one  another  vowed, 
Who  lead  the  sacred  life,  apart 
168 


ALLE  SOHELLE  169 

From  the  vain  clamor  of  the  crowd, 
From  the  wild  tumult  of  the  heart, 

In  your  own  groves  your  emblems  grow, 
Walled  round  with  silence  everywhere, 

And  lifted  from  the  world  below 
To  healthier  soil  and  purer  air. 

For  thou,  of  eye  and  soul  serene, 
Seem'st,  lady  whom  I  most  adore  ! 

A  mountain  laurel,  ever  green, 

Sprinkling  the  hills  with  Springtime  o'er ; 

•  •?'••     .: 

No  matter  whether  Summer's  drought 
A  look  of  withering  Winter  bring, 

Or  if  December's  blast  be  out, 

Where  thou  art  dwelling,  —  it  is  spring. 

Thy  sister  is  that  modest,  pale, 

And  sweetest  nursling  of  the  wood, 

That  men  call  lily  of  the  vale 
Because  it  dwells  in  lowly  mood  : 

Under  the  laurel  shade  it  grows, 

Nestling  itself  so  close  thereby 
That,  when  their  blossoms  fall,  the  snows 

Of  both  together  mingled  lie  : 


170  ALLE  SORELLE 

And  both  in  beauty  seem  so  even, 
That  now  I  worship  one,  and  now 

Find  ia  the  other  half  my  heaven :  — 
Gue^s,  O  my  dearest,  which  art  thou  ? 


TO   JOSEPHINE 

WITH   IVY  -LEAVES 

THIS  ivy  that  hung  on  the  garden-wall, 
In  sunlight,  in  moonlight,  in  rain,  in  dew, 

Shall  glisten  to-night  in  the  festive  hall, 

And  gather  fresh  beauty  and  grace  from  you. 

Like  a  pearl-drop  plucked  from  the  deep,  to  gleam 
On  the  ivory  throne  of  a  lady's  wrist, 

To-night  shall  its  loveliness  lovelier  seem 

On  the  head  by  whose  tresses  it  shall  be  kissed. 
171 


LILY  OF  STRATH-FARRAR 

My  lady  comes  of  knightly  race ; 

Her  forbears  oft  on  many  a  field, 
Ere  arms  to  merchandise  gave  place, 

With  life's  best  drops  their  honor  sealed. 

She  beareth  lilies  on  her  shield, 
The  flower  de  luce  is  her  device  ; 

And  on  the  roll  of  her  degree 
Crosses  are  blazoned  twice  and  thrice. 

Some  served  their  king  on  foreign  strands ; 

One  yeoman  fell  to  make  ns  free ; 
One,  at  his  country's  high  commands, 

Helped  build  the  country  that  you  see: 

What  wonder  that  his  child  to  me 
Seems  of  that  life  a  precious  part, 

Or  that  I  render  her  in  rhyme 
The  constant  service  of  my  heart  ? 

I  know  inine  age  forbids  to  me 
More  than  a  distant  lover's  doom ; 

To  worship  still  and  dream  that  she 
Some  day  may  wander  to  my  tomb, 
172 


LILY  OF  STHATH-FAHKAH  178 

And  haply  hang  a  clover-bloom 

Upon  my  marble  cross,  in  sign 
That  she  remembers  me  with  love, 

Though  always  cold  and  never  mine  ! 


OBITUARY 

FINDING  Francesca  full  of  tears,  I  said, 

44  Tell  me  thy  trouble."     "  Oh,  my  dog  is  dead ! 

Murdered  by  poison  !  —  no  one  knows  for  what  -— 

Was  ever  dog  born  capable  of  that  ?  " 

"Child," — I    began    to    say,    but    checked    my 

thought,  — 

44  A  better  dog  can  easily  be  bought." 
For  no —  what  animal  could  him  replace? 
Those  loving  eyes  !     That  fond,  confiding  face  ! 
Those   dear,  dumb    touches !     Therefore    I   was 

dumb. 

From  word  of  mine  could  any  comfort  come  ? 
A  bitter  sorrow  't  is  to  lose  a  brute 
Friend,  dog  or  horse,  for  grief  must  then  be  mute,  — 
So  many  smile  to  see  the  rivers  shed 
Of  tears  for  one  poor,  speechless  creature  dead. 
When  parents  die  there  's  many  a  word  to  say  — 
Kind  words,  consoling —  one  can  always  pray  ; 
When  children  die  't  is  natural  to  tell 
Their  mother,  "  Certainly,  with  them  't  is  well!  " 
But  for  a  dog,  't  was  all  the  life  he  had, 

174 


OBITUARY  175 

Since  death  is  end  of  dogs,  or  good  or  bad. 
This  was  his  world ;  he  was  contented  here ; 
Imagined  nothing  better,  naught  more  dear, 
Than   his    young  mistress ;   sought  no   brighter 

sphere  ; 

Having  no  sin,  asked  not  to  be  forgiven  ; 
Ne'er  guessed  at  God  nor  ever  dreamed  of  heaven. 
Now  he  has  passed  away,  so  much  of  love 
Goes  from  our  life,  without  one  hope  above  ! 
When  a  dog  dies  there  's  nothing  to  be  said 
But  —  kiss  me,  darling !  —  dear  old  Smiler  's  dead. 


IN  RETURN  FOR  SOME  PRAIRIE  BIRDS 

T  is  a  pretty  fair  farm,  that  of  ours  in  the  West ; 
And  the  poultry  they  raise  there,  it  equals  the  best ; 
These  hens  of  the  prairie,  I  never  have  seen 
A  civilized  capon  more  plump  or  as  clean. 

'T  is  a  fine  hunting-ground,  the  domain  we  possess, 
Some  thousand  miles  oft',  —  sure  it  cannot  be  less ; 
For  it  took  'em  three  days,  in  the  mire  and  the  snow, 
These  birds  to  bring  hither,  —  the  rivers  were  low. 

I  have  walked  over  England,  and  given  a  look 
At  all  their  great  houses;  but  ne'er  was  a  duke, 
For  all  his  French  pedigree,  all  his  fair  crest, 
That  had  such  a  park  as  our  park  in  the  West. 

Gray  bird  of  the  wilderness !  lucky  for  you 

That  you  'scaped  the  fell  shaft  of  the  wandering 

Sioux ! 
Then  the  savage  had  gorged  you,  half  burnt  and 

half  raw, 
And  tossed  your  sweet  bones  a  bonne  bouche  to 

his  squaw. 

170 


IN  RETURN  FOR  SOME  PRAIHIE  BIRDS    177 

But  now  you  shall  grace  an  Athenian  board, 
And  sparkling  libations  to  you  shall  be  poured ; 
If  Iowa  send  game  and  Ohio  send  wine, 
And  Cambridge    good    company ,— may   we   not 
dine? 

What  have  they  at  Windsor  we  cannot  have  here  ? 
If  we  've  no  royal  names,  yet  we  '1!  have  royal  cheer : 
This  only  is  wanting,  —  that  he  wer . »  my  guest 
Whose  friendship  supplies  me  with  birds  from  the 
West. 


TO  MADDALENA 

Lo  chionie  a  1'  aura  sparse,  e  K-i  conserva 
Iiulietro  veggio  ;  e  cosa  bella  riede 
Nel  cor  come  eolui  che  tieu  hi  chiuve. 

PKTKAKCA,  Son.  XCIII. 

MANY  in  shades  like  these  find  loneliness 

A  kind  of  terror :  I  am  ne'er  alone, 
With  Nature  smiling  in  her  summer  dress, 

And  with  one  lady  of  such  gentle  tone 
As  Maddalena's,  whose  companionship, 

Casual  or  constant,  is  enough  to  make  . 
The  world  seem  richer  for  what  tilings  I  skip 

Who  skip  so  much  of  life  for  study's  sake. 


CANDLEMAS  NIGHT 

WHILE  still  the  west  was  glowing,  yesternight, 

From  a  small  dwelling  in  a  common  street, 
Amid,  all  common  things  of  sound  and  sight, 

A  mighty  spirit  Olympus-ward  did  fleet. 
In  that  celestial  commonwealth  of  souls 

Who  have  deserved  Olympus,  what  a  crowd 
Will  come  about  him !  how  the  list  unrolls 

Of  names  like  his  !  with  voice  no  longer  loud, 
But  low  and  tender,  trembling  to  the  tone 

Of  his  melodious  greeting,  u  O  my  true! 
O  Charles!  dear  Edmund!  constant  Garrison! 

Sweet  singer  by  the  Charles!  when  friends  were 
few. " 

Haply  some  elder  champions,  from  afar, 

Noting   such   press,  will    tow'rds   the   front  ad 
vance  : 

The  man  whose  soul  they  say  u  was  like  a  star," 
And    some    of    German  -  land,   and   One   from 

France  ; 
And,  of  the  Sydneys,  Algernon,  whose  word 

Writ  on  our  shield  bears  freedom's  fruit  for  aye ; 
179 


180  CANDLEMAS  NIGHT 

And   those  Greek  youths  that  Athens*  rights  re 
stored 

Shall  hold  his  hand  in  theirs,  and  Wendell  say, 
"  Beloved  llarmodius  !  thou  didst  never  die  ; 

Aristogeiton  !  here  is  for  thy  sword 
A  myrtle  of  Mount  Vernon,  plucked  this  day." 

Sing,  heavy  heart,  for  heaviness  — 
Till  Music's  burden  make  thine  less. 
Life  is  not  all  that  children  think, 
But  graybeards  at  its  failures  wink 
And  find  in  harmony  relief 
From  touches  of  remembered  grief ; 
For  Age  well  knows  he  nothing  knowa, 
And  life,  in  drawing  to  its  close, 
Seems  in  a  deeper  mystery  mailed, 
And  nil  the  clouds  that  erst  prevailed 
From  time  to  time  with  gleams  of  light 
Gather  to  deeper  folds  of  night, 
Impenetrable  as  to  us 
Th'  envolumed  hippopotamus. 
Then,  heavy  heart,  for  heaviness 
Sing  on  and  make  thy  misery  less  ; 
In  God's  name  use  whatever  art 
May  cure  that  heaviness  of  heart, 
And  thank  the  Giver  who  relents 
Thus  much  of  his  austere  intents 


CANDLEMAS  NIGHT  181 

And  lends  the  setting  of  our  sun 
Rose-colored  clouds  to  gild  the  dun 
That  looms  behind  the  horizon's  line, 
Where  unknown  seas  and  skies  combine. 


ON   A   PHOTOGRAPH    RECEIVED   FROM 
A   FRIEND  IN   ROME 

1  Vrdu'  la  faccia  miu  si  t '  innamora  '.' 

DANTK. 

PEARL  of  Savoy !  so  precious  to  the  heart 
Of  all  Italians,  and  of  all  who  love 
That  land  of  Italy,  if  some  apart 
Who  dwell  from  Italy's  air  and  Italy's  tongue 
Fail  of  remembrance,  —  when  they  look  above 
The  private  altar  where  they  daily  do 
Their  matins  and  their  vespertine  devotions, 
Beside  the  cross  they  see  thy  picture  too, 
Where  Victor's  name  is  near  Immanuers  hung ; 
And  though  from  Tiber  sundered  by  the  ocean, 
Tiber,  and  Arno,  and  Cisalpine  Po, 
Beholding  that  bright  face,  the  fond  emotion 
Of  country  comes  to  them  on  bended  knees: 

0  MargTierita  la  supcrla,  —  Queen ! 

In  this  New  World  which  thy  great  Genoese 

Gave  to  mankind,  —  thou  hast  one  lover  here 

Who  bows  before  thy  majesty  of  mien, 

And  for  thy  land's  sake  holds  thine  image  dear. 


ON  A  HEAD  OF  HERMIONE 

PAINTED   BY   WILLIAM   WILLARD 

LOOK  on  this  lady !   and  behold  in  her 
What  women  could  be,  and  what  women  were, 
In  days  gone  by,  before  the  excess  of  books 
Had  weighed  their  natures  down  and  marred  their 

looks : 

A  face  that  could  not  frown,  and  if  it  smile, 
Reveals  a  soul  incapable  of  guile ; 
Spirito  rjenttt !   believing  others  clean, 
Thinking  no  scandal,  noting  nothing  mean ; 
As  far  away  from  sourness  as  from  vanity, 
Perfect  in  purity,  —  not  Puritanity. 

183 


TO  A  LADY 

WITH   A   HEAD  OP   DIANA 

MY  Christmas  gifts  were  few  :  to  one 
A  fan,  to  keep  love's  flame  alive, 

Since  even  to  the  constant  sun 
Twilight  and  setting  must  arrive  ; 

And  to  another  —  she  who  sent 

That  splendid  toy,  an  empty  purse  — 

I  gave,  though  not  for  satire  meant, 
An  emptier  thing  —  a  scrap  of  verse  ; 

For  thee  I  chose  Diana's  head, 

Graved  by  a  cunning  hand  in  Rome, 

To  whose  dim  shop  my  feet  were  led 
By  sweet  remembrances  of  home. 

'T  was  with  a  kind  of  pagan  feeling 
That  I  my  little  treasure  bought,  — 

My  mood  I  care  hot  for  concealing,  — 
44  Great  is  Diana  !  "  was  my  thought 
184 


TO  A  LADY  185 

Methought,  howe'er  we  change  our  creeds, 
Whether  to  Jove  or  God  we  bend, 

By  various  paths  religion  leads 
All  spirits  to  a  single  end. 

The  goddess  of  the  woods  and  fields, 
The  healthful  huntress,  undcfilcd, 

Now  with  her  fabled  brother  yields 
To  sinless  Mary  and  her  child. 

But  chastity  and  truth  remain 
Still  the  same  virtues  as  of  yore, 

Whether  we  kneel  in  Christian  fane 
Or  old  mythologies  adore. 

What  though  the  symbol  were  a  lie,  — 
Since  the  ripe  world  hath  wiser  grown,— 

If  any  goodness  grew  thereby, 
I  will  not  scorn  it  for  mine  own. 

So  I  selected  Dian's  head 

From  out  the  artist's  glittering  show ; 
And  this  shall  be  my  gift,  I  said, 

To  one  that  bears  the  silver  bow  ; 

To  her  whose  quiet  life  has  been 
The  mirror  of  as  calm  a  heart ; 


186  TO  A   LADY 

Above  temptation  from  the  din 
Of  cities,  and  the  pomp  of  art ; 

Who  still  hath  spent  her  active  days 

Cloistered  amid  her  happy  hills, 
Not  ignorant  of  worldly  ways, 
*  But  loving  more  the  woods  and  rills. 

And  thou  art  she  to  whom  I  give 
This  image  of  the  virgin  queen, 
^  Praying  that  thou,  like  her,  mayst  live 
Thrice  blest !  in  being  seldom  seen. 


WITH  A  GIFT  OF  LILY-BUDS 

LILIES  lightly  come  in  spring 
Where  they  find  best  blossoming: 
Edwin's  grandchild!  rosy-pale, 
When  these  lilies  of  the  vale 
Warm  their  hearts  in  thy  soft  hand, 
Thou  shalt  see  their  buds  expand 
As  one  after  April  snows 
Sees  blue  violets'  eyes  unclose. 

Mine  be  only  winter  flowers, 
Nursed  through  many  sunless  hours 
In  her  chamber,  late  who  lay 
Dying  many  a  bitter  day, 
Counting  every  stroke  of  bell 
All  night  long,  till  morning  fell 
On  her  spirit  —  like  a  cloud  ; 
Some  of  these  lay  on  her  shroud. 

Take  them!  touch  them — let  them  see 
Those  fair  eyes,  and  straightway  be 
Fully  blown  ;  then  kiss  thy  lips, 
And  their  sweet  breath  in  thy  room, 
187 


188          WITH  A   GIFT  OF  LILY-BUDS 

Though  the  sun  were  in  eclipse, 
Shall  be  sunshine  and  perfume  ; 

Touch  but  thy  finger  tips 

My  tender  buds,  and  they  will  bloom. 


WATCHING  THE  RIVER 

ALL  to  the  rich  doth  not  belong, 

Nor  to  the  proud  the  whole  world's  peace  : 
Here  in  these  woods  are  books  and  song, 

Labors  and  loves  that  never  cease : 

From  care  we  revel  in  release, 
And  seek  not  what  we  could  not  find, 

Glory  in  gold  —  but  look  within, 
Hoping  our  harvest  in  the  mind. 

Not  learning  of  the  learned  sort, 

Not  wisdom  of  the  worldly  wise 
(We  live  remote  and  life  is  short), 

But  such  as  comes  to  common  eyes: 

To  watch  Antares  at  his  rise, 
The  Greater  and  the  Lesser  Bear, 

To  find  Andromeda,  or  tell 
The  stars  of  Cassiopeia's  chair. 

Wise  men  and  true  in  cities  dwell, 

But  ah !  one  dwells  there  —  Discontent ! 

With  whom  to  live,  if  less  than  hell, 
Is  like  it :  there  of  late  I  went ; 
189 


190  WATCHING   THE  RIVER 

To  my  friend's  door  my  steps  I  bent, 
And  found  him  pillowed  —  not  in  pain, 

But  watchers  by;  he  knew  me  not: 
Midnight  was  brooding  on  his  brain ! 

O  God  !  that  good  man  —  oh  !  for  gold, 
For  gold  that  father,  friend,  high-priest 

Of  all  the  charities,  had  sold 
His  faeidties,  and  now  the  least 
Of  all  that  ministered  —  his  beast  — 

Might  have  stood  sovereign  over  him : 
No  motion  in  the  mind  —  that  brow  — 

Thought's  beacon  tower,  and  now  so  dim ! 

Never  again,  my  soul,  repine 

That  I  have  nothing,  having  all : 
Health  and  myself,  and  love  like  thine, 

Dearest,  who  shar'st  my  humble  hall ! 

Nor  ever  be  my  sold  a  thrall 
To  avarice  or  ambition  vain  : 

Heaven  shield  me  from  the  hardened  heart 
That  brings  the  softness  to  the  braiu ! 


AMORIS 

SHOULD  love  return  before  I  die, 
If  haply  love  could  live  so  long, 

He  will  not  come  with  smile  or  sigh, 
Nor  wake  in  me  the  gift  of  song. 

No,  rather  with  a  lordly  scorn 
I  would  receive  the  fatal  trust, 

For  pleasures  out  of  season  horn 
Are  ashes  at  the  core,  and  dust. 

And  beauty's  eyes  might  plead  in  vain, 
And  music's  voice  intone  forever  — 

I  should  hear  nothing  in  the  strain 
But  one  sad  note  of  never,  never. 
191 


THINK  NOT  OP  ME  AMID  THE  CROWD 

THINK  not  of  me  amitl  the  crowd 
Where  with  her  linery  and  her  bells 

The  fashion  of  the  world  is  loud, 

And  woman  shows  the  charms  she  sells. 

I  would  not  have  my  image,  rise 

Among  those  phantoms  of  the  street, 

That  pirouette  like  a  pack  of  flies 
And  idly  as  they  came  retreat. 

Give  them  a  glance  and  let  them  pass, 
Forgot  as  they  were  born  to  be, 

But  in  their  multitudinous  mass, 
O  lady  !  never  mingle  me. 

Bather  in  life's  lone  hour,  dear  love ! 

And  thy  still  chamber's  inmost  place, 
Set  in  thy  thought  my  bust  above 

All  other  forms  and  every  face ; 

Or  when  thy  cheek  is  dewed  with  tears 
On  some  dark  day  when  friends  depart, 


THINK  NOT  OF  ME  AMID  THE  CROWD    IDo 

When  life  before  thee  seems  all  feurs 
And  all  remembrance  one  long  smart, 

Then  in  the  secret  sacred  cell 

Thy  soul  keeps  for  her  hour  of  prayer, 

Breathe  but  my  name,  that  1  may  dwell 
Part  of  thy  worship  alway  there. 


IN  REMEMBRANCE 

OUR  last  rose  left  us  long  ago  ; 

Then  the  ripe  berries  came  and  went ; 
The  tides  run  high  that  late  were  low, 

And  midsummer  is  well-nigh  spent. 

A  lonely  primrose  at  the  gate 

Hangs  wilted,  wa tehing  for  her  wheels ; 
Lady,  the  lily  says  —  't  is  lute, 

Our  high-top  orchard  slighted  feels, 

And  the  rank  burdock  spreads  apace, 
Fell  harbor  of  the  venomous  fly, 

And  in  the  sweetbrier's  wonted  place 
The  deadly  nightshade  drooping  by 

The  garden  wall  begins  to  move 

Of  sadness  in  my  thought  a  touch,  — 

A  fancy  I  would  fain  reprove 

And  dare  not  dwell  on  overmuch,  — 


194 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  195 

The  shadow  of  a  passing  doubt 

I  never  uttered  unto  men  ; 
*T  is  thifc,  —  what  were  iny  life  without 

Her  —  should  she  never  come  again ! 


EPITAPH  ON  A  CHILD 

THIS  little  seed  of  life  and  love, 

Just  lent  us  for  a  day, 
Came  like  a  blessing  from  above,— 

Passed  like  a  tlream  away. 

And  when  we  garnered  in  the  earth 

The  foison  that  was  ours, 
We  felt  that  burial  was  but  birth 

To  spirits,  as  to  flowers. 

And  still  that  benediction  stays, 

Although  its  angel  passed ; 
Dear  God !   thy  ways,  if  bitter  ways, 

We  learn  to  love  at  last. 

But  for  the  dream,  —  it  broke  indeed, 
Yet  still  great  comfort  gives : 

What  was  a  dream  is  now  our  creed,— 
We  know  our  darling  lives. 


196 


STANZAS 

"  We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of." 
I 

WE  have  forgot  what  we  have  been, 
And  what  we  are  we  little  know ; 

We  fancy  new  events  begin, 
But  all  has  happened  long  ago. 

ii 

Through  many  a  verse  life's  poem  flows, 
But  still,  though  seldom  marked  by  men, 

At  times  returns  the  constant  close ; 
Still  the  old  chorus  comes  ajrain. 


r> 


III 

The  childish  grief,  the  boyish  fear, 

The  hope  in  manhood's  breast  that  burns, 

The  doubt,  the  transport,  and  the  tear, 
Each  mood,  each  impulse,  oft  returns. 


197 


198  STANZAS 

IV 

Before  mine  infant  eyes  had  hailed 

The  new-born  glory  of  the  day, 
When  the  first  wondrous  morn  unveiled 
....  The  breathing  world  that  round  me  lay, 


The  same  strange  darkness  o'er  my  brain 
Folded  its  close,  mysterious  wings, 

The  ignorance  of  joy  or  pain 

That  each  recurring  midnight  brings. 

VI 

And  oft  my  feelings  make  me  start, 
Like  footprints  on  some  desert  shore, 

As  if  the  chambers  of  my  heart 

Had  heard  their  shadowy  step  before. 

VII 

So,  looking  into  thy  fond  eyes, 

Strange  memories  come  to  me,  as  though 
Somewhere  —  perchance  in  Paradise  — 

I  had  adored  thee  long  ago. 


SLEEP 

SOMNUS  —  or  Morpheus  was  his  name  ? 

I  have  forgot ;  I  cannot  keep 
My  schoolboy  learning :  as  it  came 

It  went  —  I  mean  the  god  of  sleep. 

That  god  and  I  were  once  fast  friends, 
But  now  his  face  I  seldom  see ; 

More  oft  the  blessed  rain  descends 
In  Egypt,  than  his  dews  on  me. 

Ah  me !  the  joy  I  had  in  dreams  — 
The  nightly  comfort  to  forget  — 

Is  mine  no  more  ;  the  morning  beams 
On  eyes  like  faded  asters,  wet : 

Yes,  moistened  oft  with  poisonous  tears, 
Till  the  burnt  lashes  look  so  few, 

You  might  suppose  that  threescore  years 
Were  mine,  instead  of  thirty-two ! 

Well,  I  can  wait  a  little  more, 
A  little  longer  wake  and  weep, 
199 


200  SLEEP 

Until  the  welcome  grave  restore 
The  bliss  of  an  unbroken  sleep. 

Let  me  remember  Him  that  while 

His  tired  disciples  round  Him  slept  — 

(The  sinless  born,  that  knew  no  guile  !)- 
Watched  in  Gethseinane,  and  wept. 


TO  A  « MAGDALEN0 

A   PAINTING   BY  GUIDO 
1 

MARY,  when  thou  wert  a  virgin, 
Ere  the  first,  tlie  fatal  sin 

Stole  into  thy  bosom's  chamber, 
Loading  six  companions  in  ; 

Ere  those  eyes  had  wept  an  error, 
What  thy  beauty  must  have  been ! 


ii 


Ere  those  lips  had  paled  their  crim.'ion, 
Quivering  with  the  soul's  despair, 

Ere  the  smile  they  wore  had  withered 
In  thine  agony  of  prayer, 

Or,  instead  of  .pearls,  the  tear-drops 
Gleamed  amid  thy  streaming  hair ; 


in 


While,  in  ignorance  of  evil, 

Still  thy  heart  serenely  dreamed*. 

And  the  morning  light  of  girlhood 
On  thy  cheeks'  young  garden  beamed, 


201 


202  TO  A    "MAGDALEN" 

Where  the  abundant  rose  was  blushing, 
Not  of  earth  couldst  thou  have  seemed ! 


IV 

When  thy  frailty  fell  upon  thee, 
Lovely  wert  thou,  even  then  ; 

Shame  itself  could  scarce  disarm  thee 
Of  the  charms  that  vanquished  men. 

Which  of  Salem's  purest  daughters 
Matched  the  sullied  Magdalen  ? 


But  thy  Master's  eye  beheld  thee, 
Foul  and  all  unworthy  heaven  ; 

Pitied,  pardoned,  purged  thy  spirit 
Of  its  black,  pernicious  leaven  ; 

Drove  the  devils  from  out  the  temple 
All  the  dark,  the  guilty  seven. 

VI 

Oh,  the  beauty  of  repentance ! 

Mary,  tenfold  fairer  now 
Art  thou  with  disheveled  tresses, 

And  that  anguish  on  thy  brow ! 
Ah,  might  every  sinful  sister 

Grow  in  beauty,  even  as  thou  ! 


THE  GROOMSMAN  TO  HIS  MISTRESS 

i 

EVEKY  wedding,  says  the  proverb, 

Makes  another,  soon  or  late ; 
Never  yet  was  any  marriage 

Entered  in  the  book  of  Fate, 
But  the  names  were  also  written 

Of  the  patient  pair  that  wait. 

II 

Blessings,  then,  upon  the  morning 
When  my  friend,  with  fondest  look, 

By  the  solemn  rites*  permission, 
To  himself  his  mistress  took, 

And  the  Destinies  recorded 
Other  two  within  their  book. 

Ill 

While  the  priest  fulfilled  his  office, 
Still  the  ground  the  lovers  eyed,    . 

And  the  parents  and  the  kinsmen 
Aimed  their  glances  at  the  bride, 
203 


204    THE  GROOMSMAN  TO  HIS  MISTRESS 

But  the  groomsmen  eyed  the  virgins 
Who  were  waiting  at  her  side. 

IV 

Three  there  were  that  stood  beside  her; 

One  was  dark,  and  one  was  fair, 
But  nor  fair  nor  dark  the  other, 

Save  her  Arab  eyes  and  hair ; 
.    Neither  dark  nor  fair  I  call  her, 

Yet  she  was  the  fairest  there. 


While  her  groomsman  —  shall  I  own  it? 

Yes,  to  tliee,  and  only  thee  — 
Gazed  ujKm  this  dark-eyed  maiden 

Who  was  fairest  of  the  three, 
Thus  he  thought :  "  How  blest  the  bridal 

Where  the  bride  were  such  as  she !  " 

VI 

Then  I  mused  upon  the  adage, 
Till  my  wisdom  was  perplexed, 

And  I  wondered,  as  the  churchman 
Dwelt  upon  his  holy  text, 

Which  of  all  who  heard  his  lesson 
Should  require  the  service  next. 


THE  GROOMSMAN   TO  UIS  MISTRESS    205 

VII 

Whose  will  be  the  next  occasion 
For  the  flowers,,  the  feast,  the  wine? 

Thine,  perchance,  my  dearest  lady, 
Or,  who  knows? —  it  may  be  mine : 

What  if  't  were  —  forgive  the  fancy  — 
What  if  't  were  — both  mine  and  thine? 


"SOTTO  L'USBERGO  DEL  SENTIRSI  PURO  " 

BKUSH  not  the  floor  where  my  lady  hath  trod, 
Lest  one  light  sign  of  her  foot  you  inar ; 

For  where  she  hath  walked,  in  the  Spring,  on  the 

sod, 
There,  I  have  noticed,  most  violets  are. 

Touch  not  her  work,  nor  her  book,  nor  a  thing 
That  her  exquisite  linger  hath  only  pressed  ; 

But  fan  the  dust  off  with  a  plume  that  the  wing 
Of  a  ring-dove  let  fall,  on  his  way  to  his  nest. 

I  think  the  sun  stops,  if  a  moment  she  stand, 
In  the  morn,  sometinu's,  at  her  father's  door ; 

And   the    brook    where   she   may   have   dipt   her 

hand 
Runs  clearer  to  me  than  it  did  before. 

Under  the  mail  of  u  I  know  me  pure," 
I  dare  to  dream  of  her  ;  and,  by  day, 

As  oft  as  I  come  to  her  presence,  I  'm  sure 

Had  I  one  low  thought,  she  would  look  it  away. 
200 


"LIKE  AS  THE  LARK" 

"  Qualr  allodetta  che  in  aure  »i  spazia 
Priraa  cuntando,  e  poi  tace,  contenta 
Dell'  ultima  dulcezza  che  la  sazia." 

DANTE  :   Farad  iso,  ATX. 

LIKE  as  the  lark  that,  soaring  higher  and  higher, 
Singeth  awhile,  then  stops  as 'twere  content 

With  his  last  sweetness,  having  filled  desire, 
So  paused  our  bard ;  not  for  his  force  was  spent, 

Nor  that  a  string  was  loosened  in  his  lyre, 
But,  having  said  his  best  and  done  his  best, 

He  could  not  better  what  was  given  before, 
And  threescore  years  and  ten,  demanding  rest, 

Whispered,  They  want  thce  on  the  other  shore! 
And  now  he  walks  amid  the  learned  throng, 

Haply  with  him  who  was  the  sixth  of  those 
Who  towered  above  the  multitude  in  song, 

Or  by  the  side  of  Geoffrey  Chaucer  goes, 
Who  shall  remember  with  his  wonted  smile 
How  James  found  music  in  his  antique  style. 
But  we  '11  not  mingle  fancies  with  our  sorrow 
Nor  from  his  own  imagination  borrow  ; 


208  "LIKE  AS  A   LAKK" 

Holmes,  who  is  left  us,  best  coulil  speak  his  praise 
Who  knew  his  heart  so  well  and  loved  his  lays, 
And  whom  Heaven  crowns  with  greater  length  of 
days. 


INSCRIPTION 

FOB   AN   ALMS   CHEST   MADE   OF  CAMPHOR-WOOD 

THIS  fragrant  box  that  breathes  of  India's  balms 
Hath  one  more  fragrance,  —  for  it  asketh  alms ; 
But  though  'tis  sweet  and  blessed  to  receive, 
You  know  who  said,  "  It  is  more  blest  to  give : " 
Give,  then,  receive  his  blessing;  and  for  me 
Thy  silent  boon  sufficient  blessing  be ! 

If  Ceylon's  isle,  that  bears  the  bleeding  trees, 
With  any  perfume  load  the  orient  breeze ; 
If  Ileber's  Muse,  by  Ceylon  as  lie  sailed, 
A  pleasant  odor  from  the  shore  inhaled,  — 
More  lives  in  me;  for  underneath  my  lid 
A  sweetness  as  of  sacrifice  is  hid. 

Thou  gentle  almoner,  in  passing  by, 

Smell  of  my  wood,  and  scan  me  with  thine  eye : 

I,  too,  from  Ceylon  bear  a  spicy  breath 

That  might  put  warmness  in  the  lungs  of  death ; 

A  simple  chest  of  scented  wood  I  seem ; 

But  oh !  within  me  lurks  a  golden  beam,  — - 


210  INSCRIPTION 

A  beam  celestial,  and  a  silver  din, 
As  though  imprisoned  angels  played  within ; 
Hushed  in  my  heart,  my  fragrant  secret  dwells 
If  thou  wouldst  learn  it,  Paul  of  Tarsus  tells ; 
No  jangled  brass  nor  tinkling  eymbal  sound, 
For  iu  my  bosom  Charity  is  found. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

"  Some  s.iv,  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  cornea 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
This  bird  of  dawning  Hingeth  all  night  long : 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  daros  stir  abroad ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome  then ;  no  planets  strike ; 
No  fairy  takes,  nor  witch  hath  power  to  charm,  — 
So  gracious  and  so  hallo  wed  is  the  time.'* 

O  Biup  of  dawning!  all  the  night 

Sing !  for  the  season  is  at  hand 
When  hearts  are  glad,  and  faees  bright, 

And  happiness  is  Heaven's  command: 
Shout,  chanticleer !  that  all  may  hear 
Whom  cares  have  chastened  through  the  year : 

Christinas  is  come  to  cheer  the  land ! 

And  now  no  spirit  walks  —  but  one 
Of  love,  nor  shall  that  spirit  cease: 

No  planet  rules  —  except  the  Sun 

Of  Righteousness,  the  Prince  of  Peace  I 

And  that  whose  ray  first  led  the  way 

To  where  the  babe  in  Bethlehem  lay  — 
The  star  that  ne'er  shall  know  decrease, 
iill 


EASTER  HYMN 

CHEIIUBINI 

WHO  is  this  that  comes  from  Edom, 
All  his  raiment  bright  with  blood  ? 

Lord  of  love  and  life  and  freedom, 
Lifting  man  from  death's  dark  flood, 

Bring  fresh  roses  for  adorning 
Temple  stairs  and  sacred  aisle ; 

Ever  be  this  Easter  morning 
Welcomed  with  triumphal  smile. 

Rose  of  Sharon !  for  his  altar 

Lilies  of  the  valley  bring  ; 
Sing  from  David's  holy  psalter 

Anthems  to  our  Heavenly  King ! 

My  Redeemer,  —  that  he  liveth 
Well  I  know  ;  and  we  believe 

God,  who  every  blessing  giveth, 
Man  of  hope  will  not  bereave. 
212 


EASTER  HYMN  213 

Never  more  shall  mortal  sorrow 

Wake  in  human  hearts  despair ; 
Never  shall  the  doubtful  morrow 

Crush  beyond  our  strength  to  bear. 

No  more  fear  of  death  forever ! 

Angels  watch  by  every  grave ; 
When  the  soul  and  body  sever 

They  will  come,  and  He  shall  save. 

Pomp  of  organs !  virgin  voices ! 

Mingle  music  for  the  morn 
When  the  soul  of  man  rejoices 

O'er  his  new  life,  deathless  born. 


TO  A  POET  IN  THE  CITY 

CHERISH  thy  muse !  for  life  hath  little  more, 
Save  what  we  hold  in  common  with  the  herd : 
Oh,  blessing  of  these  woods !   to  walk  unstirred 
By  clash  of  commerce  and  the  city's  roar ! 
What  finds  the  scholar  in  those  flaming  walls 
But  wearied  people,  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Most  with  too  high,  and  many  without  aim, 
Crowded  in  vans  or  sweltering  in  huge  halls 
To  hear  loud  emptiness  or  see  the  show  ? 
Were  this  a  life  to  'scape  the  Muses'  blame? 
Rather  than  such  would  I  the  Parcae  ask, 
Folding  mine  arms,  to  stretch  me  on  the  floor 
Where  Agamemnon  in  his  golden  mask 
Dreams  not  of  Argolis  or  Argos  more. 

'214 


SONNET 

ON  A  PHOTOGRAPH  OF   AN   UNKNOWN   LADY,  SENT  IN   A 
LETTER 

SMILE  on  and  be  my  sunlight  for  a  while, 
Face  that  I  fain  would  look  at  for  a  day ! 
Who  is  the  lady  ?     Comes  she  to  our  isle  ? 
Knows  she  the  color  of  our  Wayland  clay  ? 
She  never  came  here  nor  will  ever  come 
To.  see  our  meadows  and  their  wealth  of  liay, 
And  the  slow  Sudbury  stream,  fringed  all  the  way 
With  lilies  lovely  as  herself,  almost. 
She  never  can,  and  therefore  I  am  dumb, 
And  on  her  beauty  gazing  like  a  ghost, 
Or  some  enchanted  spirit  chained  thereto, 
Can  only  whisper  to  my  heart,  u  Alas ! 
Such  were  the  faces  Carlo  Dolci  drew, 
But  we,  poor  souls !  may  only  glance  and  pass,"  , 

215 


TO  THE  NEW  ROYALL  PROFESSOR 

LEARN'D  in  the  law,  who  leav'st  the  busy  street 

And^studious  chambers  for  the  gowned  chair, 

Amid  the  cordial  friends  that  speak  thee  fair 

And  thine  accession  to  the  laurel  greet, 

If  one  slow  scholar  in  his  hushed  retreat 

A  little  longer  than  the  rest  forbear, 

'Tis  but  as  minstrels  that  salute  some  heir 

Wait  for  still  night  to  make  their  flutes  more  sweet. 

And  as  in  heaven  there  is  more  joy  o'er  one 

Repentant  worldling  than  o'er  ninety-nine 

Good  men  who  love  the  world  or  make  it  loved, 

So  glad  Athena  glories  in  the  son 

Who  turns  in  manhood  to  his  boyhood's  shrine, 

And  Harvard  welcomes  him  with  hand  ungloved. 

216 


"O  YE  SWEET  HFAVENS!" 

0  YE  sweet  heavens !  your  silence  is  to  me 
More  than  all  music.     With  what  full  delight 

1  come  down  to  my  dwelling  by  the  sea 
And  look  from  out  the  lattice  on  the  night ! 
There  the  same  glories  burn  serene  and  bright 
As  in  my  boyhood  ;  and  if  I  am  old 

Are  they  not  also  ?     Thus  my  spirit  is  bold 

To  think  perhaps  we  are  coeval.     Who 

Can  tell  when  first  my  faculty  began 

Of  thought?     Who  knows  but  I  was  there  with 

you 

When  first  your  Maker's  mind,  celestial  spheres, 
Contrived  your  motion  ere  I  was  a  man  ? 
Else,  wherefore  do  mine  eyes  thus  fill  with  tears 

As  I,  O  Pleiades !  your  beauty  scan  ? 

217 


NOT  now  for  sleep,  O  slumber-god !  we  sue ; 
I  lypnus !  not  sleep,  but  give  our  souls  repose  ! 
Of  the  day's  musie  such  a  mellowing  close 
As  might  have  rested  Shakespeare  from  his  art, 
Or  soothed  the  spirit  of  the  Tuscan  strong 
Who  best  read  life,  its  passions  and  its  woes, 
And  wrought  of  sorrow  earth's  divinest  song. 
Bring  us  a  mood  that  might  have  lulled  Mozart ; 
Not  stupor,  not  forget  fulness,  not  dreams, 
But  vivid  sense  of  what  is  best  and  rarest, 
And  sweet  remembrance  of  the  blessed  few, 
In  the  real  presence  of  this  fair  world's  fairest : 
A  spell  of  peace  —  as  't  were  by  those  dear  streams 
Boccaccio  wrote  of,  when  romance  was  new. 

218 


SONNET  XIII 

PROM  THE  VITA  NUOVA  OF   DANTE  ALIQHIERI 

So  gentle  seems  my  lady  and  so  pure 
When  she  greets  any  one,  that  scarce  the  eye 
Such  modesty  and  brightness  can  endure, 
And  the  tongue,  trembling,  falters  in  reply. 
She  never  heeds,  when  people  praise  her  worth, 
Siome  in  their  speech,  and  many  with  a  pen,  — 
But  meekly  moves,  as  if  sent  down  to  earth 
To  show  another  miracle  to  men ! 
And  such  a  pleasure  from  her  presence  grows 
On  him  who  gazeth,  while  she  passeth  by,  — 
A  sense  of  sweetness  that  no  mortal  knows 
Who  hath  not  felt  it,  —  that  the  soul's  repose 
Is  woke  to  worship,  and  a  spirit  flows 
Forth  from  her  face  that  seems  to  whisper, fck  Sigh ! 


SONNET 

"Then  are  they  glad   because   they  are  at  rest:  and  so  he 
bringeth  them  unto  the  haven  where  they  would  be.'1  —  Psalter. 

Til  Kit t£  loomed  a  great  shape  lately  scarce  in  sight 
Of  Seituate  cliffs,  — -  a  mountain  mid  the  mist ; 
Perchance  an  Indiaman,  we  said  ;  but  hist ! 
Heard  yon  that  gun-stroke,  out. by  yonder  light? 
Then  the  fog  thickened  in  the  gathering  night; 
No  further  signal  heard  (save  that  dread  one 
•Which  brings  back  terror  even  as  I  write) 
Of  the  mysterious  wanderer ;  nor  is  known 
Aught  else  of  her  —  but  that  she  comes  no  more. 
O  unknown  mourners !  watchers  of  the  sea 
By  many  a  lonely  fireside  on  the  shore, 
One  thing  is  sure:  He  brought  them  to  the  breast 
Of  that  calm  haven  where  you  fain  would  be ; 
And  they  are  glad  —  because  they  are  at  rest. 

220 


BEN  DELL'   1NTELLETTO 

WHENEVER  Good  of  Intellect  comes  in, 
Then  peace  is  with  us,  and  a  soft  control 
Of  all  harsh  thinking ;  and  but  one  desire 
Fills  every  bosom,  —  to  forget  the  din 
Of  outside  things,  and  render  up  the  soul 
To  friendship's  banquet  by  an  evening  fire. 
Then  is  the  season  in  this  world  of  sin 
That   brings  new  strength,  and  keepeth  us  heart- 
whole 

Amid  the  changes  that  distress  and  tire ; 
And  when  from  wisdom  we  have  wanderers  been, 
So  that  a  stupor  on  the  spirit  stole 
From  things  unknown^  with  visions  dark  and  dire, 
In  this  high  presence  we  restore  ourselves 
Mora  than  by  all  the  volumes  on  our  shelves. 

221 


TURNING  FROM  DARWIN  TO  THOMAS 
AQUINAS 

UNLESS  in  thought  with  thee  I  often  live, 
Angelic  doctor  !  life  seems  poor  to  me. 
What  are  these  bounties,  if  they  only  be 
Such  boon  as  fanners  to  their  servants  give? 
That  I  am  fed,  and  that  mine  oxen  thrive, 
That  my  lambs  fatten,  that  mine  hours  are  free  — 
These  ask  my  nightly  thanks  on  bended  knee  ; 
And  I  do  thank  Him  who  hath  blest  my  hive, 
And  made  content  my  herd,  my  Hock,  my  bee. 
But,  Father.!  nobler  things  I.  ask  from  Thee. 
Fishes  have  sunshine,  worms  have  everything ! 
Are  we  but  apes?     Oh  !  give  me,  God,  to  know 
I  am  death's  master  ;  not  a  scaffolding, 
But  a  true  temple  where  Christ's  word  could  grow. 

222 


MERCEDES 

SCARCE  grown  to  womanhood,  to  die  a  Queen ! 
Montpeusier's  daughter,  what  a  fate  was  thine ! 
Youngest  and  loveliest  of  that  Bourbon  line 
So  long  chief  actors  in  the  mingled  scene 
Of  state  and  sway  —  the  scaffold  and  the  axe ; 
fipiritui  tuo  sit  wternd  Pax! 
Thy  tragedy  shall  keep  thy  cypress  green, 
And  Isabella's  name  shall  be  to  Spain 
Less  dear  a  memory  than  the  tender  tale 
Of  thy  young  love  and  wedlock  —  and  the  wail 
That  closed  the  marriage  piean,  and  the  rain 
Of  sudden  tears,  as  when  an  August  cloud 
Bursts  mid  the  sunshine.     Oh,  how  cold  and  pale 
Alfonso,  when  he  kissed  thee  in  thy  shroud ! 

223 


IN  SAINT  JOSEPH'S 

WHILE  the  priest  said  "  perpetua  hiceat" 

Sprinkling  the  palms  that  graced  a  maiden's  bier, 

I  felt  a  light  stream  in  upon  my  soul ; 

And  one  that  near  me  in  the  chancel  sate, 

Who  was  to  the  departed  soul  most  dear, 

Saw  the  same  light,  as  my  hand  softly  stole 

To  hers,  and  suddenly  a  glory  played 

Around    those    palms  that   seemed    to  check  my 

breath ; 

Even  as  he  prayed  for  light  the  darkness  fled 
To  both  of  us  :  I  looked  into  her  eyes 
And  saw  through  tears  a  raptured  look  that  said  — 
A  strength  new-born  doth  in  my  spirit  rise, 
And  though  before  me  lies  my  sister  dead, 

I  also  feel  the  life  that  lives  in  death. 

224 


SONNET 

LIFT  me,  Lord  Jesus,  for  the  time  is  -nigh 
When  I  must  climb  unto  thy  cross  at  last ; 
The  world  fades  out,  its  lengthening  shadows  fly, 
Earth's  pomp  is  passing  and  the  musie  past ; 
Phantoms  flock  round  me,  multiplying  fast ; 
Nothing  seems  tangible ;  the  good  I  thought 
Most  permanent  hath  perished.     Come  away, 

0  sated  spirit,  from  the  vacant  scene  ; 
The  curtain  drops  upon  the  spun-out  play, 
The  benches  are  deserted.     Let  us  go, 
Forget  the  foolish  clown,  the  king,  the  queen, 
The  idle  story  with  its  love  and  woo ; 

1  seem  to  stand  before  a  minster  screen 
And  hear  faint  organs  in  the  distance  blow. 

225 


PROEM  TO  A  TRANSLATION  OF  MANZONI'S 
ODE  .ON  THE   DEATH  OF  NAPOLEON 

(iL   CINQUE    MAGGIO) 

INSCRIBED   TO   MARY   RUSSELL    MITFORD 
I 

READ  what  the  Christian  poet  saith, 

O  lady !  in  my  faithful  rhyme, 
Of  the  great  Captain  ami  his  death ; 
And  venerate,  with  me,  that  Faith 
Which,  in  the  aspiring  man  of  crime, 
-*_       Whom  gentle  goodness  must  abhor,  — 
^  Who  carried  into  every  clime 

The  fury  and  the  waste  of  war,  — 
Some  seeds  of  pardon  can  discern  ; 
^Yea,  from  his  dying  pillow  learn 
A  lesson  worthy  of  the  solemn  strain 
That  long  as  all  his  triumphs  shall  remain. 

II 

Him  and  his  history  of  blood, 
Him  and  the  ruin  that  he  made, 


PHOEM  227 

By  Moskwa's  rivulet  and  Egypt's  flood, 

All  his  bad  victories,  displayed 
On  many  an  arch  and  boastful  pile 
That  wake  the  wandering*  Briton's  smile 

To  find  no  name  of  England  there:  — >. 
These  can  the  lenient  Muse  recall, 
And  breathe  forgiveness  over  all, 

With  a  majestic;  power. 

ill 

Child  of  his  time,  the  poet  speaks 

Such  thoughts  as  to  the  time  belong ; 
No  more  his  private  malice  wreaks 

In  the  small  vengeance  of  a  song : 
That  day  of  doom  —  that  bitter  day, 
When  Hate  sate  sovran  o'er  his  lay, 

And  bade  him,  in  his  burning  line, 

To  an  eternal  curse  consign 
God's  universe,  —  hath  passed  away. 

IV 

For,  men  who  seem  to  shape  their  age, 
Yea,  fashion  history  to  their  will, 

And  on  Fame's  perdurable  page 

Write  their  own  record,  good  or  ill,  — - 

Even  these,  if  rightly  scanned, 

Are  but  the  ivory  keys  upon  the  board, 


2'28  PROEM 

Moving,  to  lose  or  win, 
By  force  of  mitre,  crown,  or  sword,  — 

Yet  all  their  little  leaps  have  been . 
Directed  by  a  wiser  hand ! 

• 

V 

Therefore  the  gracious  Lombard  muse,  benign 

Interpreter  of  Rome, 
Finds  in  this  Attila  one  spark  divine, 

That  hath  in  heaven  its  home ; 
So  welcomes  him  to  his  eternal  rest ! 
With  such  high  music  as  befits  the  blest. 

VI 

Not  so  the  grave  Etrurian  lyre 

Had  sounded,  in  that  sterner  age 
When  vengeance  thrilled  the  quivering  wire, 
When  what  the  poet  thought  was  fire, 

And  what  he  said  was  rage ; 

When  the  great  Ghibelline,  gloomy  and  unsparing, 
Moved  like  Fate's  shadow,  at  his  girdle  wearing 
Peter's  lent  keys,  —  the  while  his  iron  hand 
Held  Pluto's  passport  to  the  sunless  land! 

VII 

He,  to  these  images  of  wrong 

Wherewith  his  unforgiving  heart 


PROEM  229 

Peopled  the  pitiless  realm  of  his  dark  song-r- 
To  Dionysius  and  his  tyrant  throng 

Had  added  Bonaparte : 
And  with  the  rest  of  that  fell  brood,  — 

Pyrrhus,  and  Obizzo  the  fair, 

And  the  grim  Paduan  with  the  raven  hair,  — 

Had  sunk  him  in  that  river  of  despair, 
To  drink  his  fill  of  blood. 

VIII 

But  He  that,  in  the  midst  of  wrath, 

Remembers  mercy  still, 
Reveals  by  Calvary  a  path 

Conducting  out  of  ill, 
Into  the  glad,  immortal  fields  above, 
Where  his  great  justice  is  allayed  by  Love. 
Be  this  our  trust :  and  may  the  lofty  bard 

Who  rules  the  Latin  minstrelsy  to-day 
Soften  within  us  what  is  harsh  or  hard. 

Here  calumny  should  cease  — 
Peace  for  the  weary  soldier  let  us  pray, 
Since  by  that  lone  and  lowly  death-bed  lay 

His  cross,  —  who  was  the  Prince  of  Peace. 


"0  REST  OF  GOD" 

<(Qui  sarai  tu  poco  tempo  silvano, 
E  sarai  meco,  seuza  fine,  five 
1  >i  quollu  Ivoiiiu  uuile  Cristu  e  Romano." 

DANTE:    rurgatorio. 

O  REST  of  God  that  emleth  every  pain ! 
O  smilu  serene  of  peace  that  shall  remain ! 
O  birth  of  being !  when  this  faulty  frame 
Falls  into  nothingness  and  Death  's  a  name: 
Ilo]>e,  no  more  heartache,  with  possession  blest, 
Come  to  full  fruit,  possessing  and  possessed ; 
Earth's  passions  perishing,  now  love  alone 
Springs  to  its  natural  growth  beside  God's  throne. 

Bright  soul !  beloved  best  of  best  and  wise, 
True-hearted  woman  of  the  dauntless  eyes 
That  looked  on  death  without  dismay,  and  saw 
The  future  dawning  with  abated  awe, 
A  little  while  a  sylvan  thou  shalt  dwell 
In  silent  chambers  of  the  woodland  fell, 
But  no  long  time  ;  already  to  thy  sense 
The  calm  is  perfect  that  we  saw  commence 

230 


"0  XKST  OF  GOD*  231 

Ere  the  last  breath  had  left  thy  lip,  the  while 
Heaven's   light  seemed  breaking  on  that  parting 

smile ! 

And  we  believe  that,  sure  as  June  will  bring 
Blossoms  and  bees  and  all  the  race  that  sing, 
In  God's  good  season,  such  a  love  as  thine 
Must  vindicate  its  love  in  courts  divine, 
Strong  in  those  words  that  all  resembling  thee 
Shall  one  day  hear,  —  "  Ye  did  it  unto  me." 


MORNING  DREAMS 

"  Preaso  al  matt  in  del  ver  HI  sogna."  —  DANTE. 

LOVE,  let 's  be  thankful  we  are  past  the  time 
When  'griefs  are   comfortless;    and,   though  we 
mourn, 

Feel  in  our  sorrow  something  now  sublime, 
And  in  each  tear  the  sweetness  of  a  kiss. 
Weep  on  and  smile,  then,  for  we  know  in  this 

Our  immortality,  —  that  nothing  dies 
Within  our  hearts,  but  something  new  is  born, 

And  what  is  roughly  taken  from  our  eyes 
Gently  comes  back  in  visions  of  the  morn, 
When  dreams  are  truest.     Oh,  but  death  is  bliss ! 

I  feel  as  certain,  looking  on  the  face 
Of  a  dead  sister,  smiling  from  her  shroud, 

That  our  sweet  angel  hath  but  changed  her  place, 
And  passed  to  peace,  as  when,  amid  the  crowd 

Of  the  mad  city,  I  feel  sure  of  rest 
Beyond  the  hills,  ...  a  few  hours  further  west. 

232 


PARAPHRASE  OF  A   PASSAGE  IN  DANTE 

PARADISO,   CANTO   XXI 

The  poet  HUM-IS  in  Paradise  the  spirit  of  San  Pjetro  Damiano, 
a  man  famous  in  his  time  for  the  purity  and  austerity  of  his 
life,  and  for  his  endeavors  to  reform  the  dissolute  habits  of  the 
Romish  clergy  in  that  age,  and  the  pompous  luxury  of  their 
prelates. 

It  is  supposed  that  he  was  horn  in  Ravenna,  ahout  1007. 
Having  withdrawn  from  the  world  into  the  monastery  of  Santa 
Croce  di  Fonto  Avellana,  he  was  called  from  this  retirement  and 
employed  in  many  important  missions,  in  which  he  showed  so 
much  ability  that  ho  was  made  Cardinal  and  Bishop  of  Ostia. 
Landino  says  that  he  was  not  merely  called,  but  forcibly  com 
pelled  to  this  dignity. 

The  subjoined  paraphrase  has  so  little  claim  to  any  exactness, 
that  the  thirty  lines  of  the  original  have  been  amplified  into 
ninety.  It  is  hoped  there  may  be  found  a  closer  adherence  to 
the  spirit  of  the  text  —  and  of  San  Uamiano. 

BETWEEN  the  Hadrian  ami  the  Tyrrhene  shores, 
And  not  far  distant  from  the  Tuscan  line, 

A  jutting  crag  above  the  thunder  soars, 
Cresting  with  ridgy  rocks  the  Apennine. 

Catria  't  is  called,  and  oft  the  tempest  roars 
Down  in  the  region  of  the  fig  and  vine, 
233 


234    PA  RA PHRA  SE  OF  A  PA  SSA  GE  IN  DA  NTE 

While  sunny  Catria  shines  in  cloudless  June ; 

And  at  its  foot  a  consecrated  cell 
From  the  rough  granite  opens,  rudely-hewn, 

A  fit  abode  for  one  who  bids  farewell 
To  life's  harsh  jar,  desiring  to  attune 

His  thoughts  to  heaven,  and  in  seclusion  dwell. 

There,  in  my  peaceful  hermitage,  serene, 
I  with  so  constant  zeai  my  God  obeyed, 

That,  with  continual  fasts  and  vigils  lean, 

Through    summer   heats    and    winter   frosts    I 

c^ 

prayed. 

Clad  in  a  garment  like  my  Saviour's  mean, 
Of  simple  olives  my  repast  I  made ; 

And,  on  the  great  hereafter  wholly  bent, 
Weeding  the  garden  of  my  soul  from  sin, 

The  lonely  meditative  hours  I  spent, 
Above  the  busy  world's  distracting  din. 

And  joyous,  in  my  rocky  cloister  pent, 
Abundant  harvests  did  I  gather  in, 

Upon  that  bJeai;  and  barren  cliff,  to  pour 
Into  the  $        TS  of  the  Lord.     Alas ! 

That  sacra      .at  is  hallowed  now  no  more 
By  morning  orisons  or  midnight  mass, 

Or  sandaled  anchorite  that  numbers  o'er 
His  holy  beads  as  the  slow  moments  pass. 


PARAPHRASE  OF  A  PASSAGE  IN  DANTE    235 

But  now,  sole  occupant,  the  lizard  crawls 
At  noonday  round  my  desolate  retreat ; 

Nor  ever  sanctified  are  those  rude  walls 
By  the  blest  echoes  of  a  pilgrim's  feet ; 

And  with  a  low,  reproachful  murmur  falls 
The  rill  beside  my  old  accustomed  seat, 

Where,  day  by  day,  at  Avellana's  fount, 

By  men  Pietro  Damiano  named, 
Strict  in  my  stewardship's  exact  account, 

And  through  Homagna  for  my  penance  famed, 
I  sat  and  muscul  on  mine  adopted  mount, 

Serving  my  Master  with  a  life  unblamed. 

Ah !  what  availed  it  that  an  abbey  rose 

With  pillared  pomp  my  modest  rock  to  grace ; 

In  those  cold  aisles  Devotion's  essence  froze. 
Dearer  to  Heaven  was  that  sequestered  place 

Which  for  my  chapel  and  my  cave  I  chose, 
Wherein,  recluse,  to  run  my  godly  race. 

But  Honors  came,  and  Pomp  found  out  my  nest, 
And  like  a  weak  luire  I  was  hunted  down  ; 

They  planted  vanities  within  my  breast, 

And  robed  my  shoulders  with  the  scarlet  gown. 

Then  my  long  days  of  pensivenesn  and  rest 
Were  poorly  bartered  for  the  world's  renown. 


236    PARAPHRASE  OF  A  PASSAGE  IN  DANTE 

To  Koine  they  dragged  me,  and  my  thin  white 

hairs 

Were  by  the  Cardinal's  red  hat  concealed ; 
There  the  harsh  lessons  of  my  daily  cares 

Disclosed   new  truths   and   hidden  wrongs  re 
vealed, 

For  soon  I  learned  how  oft  the  priesthood  wears 
Its  reverend  garb  for  Vice  a  mask  and  shield  ; 
. 

I  saw  the  pride,  the  falsehood  of  their  state  ; 

I  saw  the  low,  the  sensual,  and  the  vain, 
"•    Implored  for  pardon  and  dispensing  fate  ; 

I  saw  them  fawn  and  flatter,  trick  and  feign  ; 
I  saw  their  outward  smiles  and  hidden  hate, 
Their  lust  and  luxury,  and  thirst  for  gain. 

Saint  Peter,  barefoot,  on  his  mission  came ; 

And  Paul,  a  u  chosen  vase,"  in  whom  was  poured 
So  lavishly  the  heavenly -Spirit's  flame, 

Snatched  his  chance  meal  at  any  casual  board, 
And,  reckoning  honest  poverty  no  shame, 

Above  all  wants  in  lofty  virtue  soared. 

Oft  in  the  Lateran  I  thought  of  this, 

Amid  the  tinseled  priests'  tumultuous  tread, 

As  on  the  congregations,  bowed  submiss, 
Jts  fragrant  shower  the  fuming  censer  shed ; 


PARAPHRASE  OF  A  PASSAGE  IN  DANTE    237 

A  ii.l  some  stooped  low  the  foot  of  him  to  kiss 
Whose  Muster  u  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head." 

And  when  I  Ve  seen,  on  some  high  holiday, 

Through  the  live  streets  their  long  professions 
roll, 

And  the  fat,  ermined  friars,  on  palfreys  gay,  — 
Both  creatures  covered  with  one  furry  stole,  — 

Him  I  remembered,  robed  in  mean  array, 
Who  entered  Ziou  on  an  ass's  foal. 

lie  like  an  humble  peasant  meekly  rode, 
While  shouted  forth  Jerusalem  a  song, 

And   with   palm  -  boughs   his   gladsome   pathway 

strewed  ; 
Our  modern  pastors  need  a  hand  full  strong 

On  either  side  to  prop  their  helpless  load  ; 
O  patience !  patience  !  that  endur'st  so  long  ! 


GUIDO'S  AURORA 

IN    THK    KOSPIGLIOSI    PALACK,    ROME 

**  Lu  foiifubina  di  Titan  antiou 
(Ji.\  s*  iinlii.nuMva  al  li.iho  d'  orieute, 
F n> .1  .1.11.  bratcia  del  HUO  dulce  uiuieo ; 
Di  p-iniii  •  la  Hiia  f route  era  lucent e  " 

DANTE:  t'uryutorio,  IX. 

FORTH  from  the  arms  of  her  beloved  now, 

Whitening  the  Orient  steep,  the  Concubine 
Of  old  Tithonus  comes,  her  lucent  brow 
Glistening  with   gems,  her  fair  hands  filled  with 
flowers, 

That  drop  their  violet  odors  on  the  brine, 

While  from  her  girdle  pours  a  wealth  of  pearls 
Round  ocean's  rocks  and  every  vessel's  prow 

That  cuts  the  laughing  billow's  crested  curls. 
Behind  her  step  the  busy,  sober  Hours, 

With  much  to  do,  —  and  they  must  move  apace : 
Wake  up,  Apollo!    should  the  women  stir, 

And  thou  be  lagging?   brighten  up  thy  face! 
(Those  eyes  of  Phaeton  more  brilliant  were.) 

Hurry,  dull  god !    Hyperion,  to  thy  race ! 
238 


GUWO'S  AURORA  239 

Thy  steeds  are  galloping,  but  thou  seem'st  slow: 
Hesper,  glad  wretch,  hath  newly  fed  his  torch, 

And  flies  before  thee,  and  the  world  cries,  Go ! 
Light  the  dark  woods,  the  dew-drenched  moun 
tain  scorch ! 

Phoebus,  Aurora  calls,  why  linger  so  ? 


FRANCESCA   DA   RIMINI 

A   PICTURE   BY  8CHKPFER 

You  restless  ghosts  that  roam  the  lurid  air, 
I  feel  your  misery,  —  for  I  was  there ; 
Yea,  not  in  dreams,  but  breathing  and  alive     .  -  - 
Have  seen  the  storm,  and  heard  the  tempest  drive ; 
Yet  while  the  sleet  went,  withering  as  it  past, 
And  the  mad  hail  gave  scourges  to  the  blast, 
While  all  was  black  below  and  flame  above, 
Have  thought, : — 't  is  little  to  the  storm  of  Love  : 
You  know  that  sadly,  know  it  to  your  cost, 
AhT^too  much  loving,  and  forever  lost ! 

Still,  suffering  spirits,  even  your  doom  affords 
Kisses  and  tears,  however  scant  of  words ; 
Brief  is  your  story,  but  it  liveth  long,  — 
Oh,  thank  for  that  your  poet  and  his  song ! 
Be  it  some  comfort,  in  that  hateful  Hell, 
You  had  a  lover  of  your  love  to  tell ; 
One  that  knew  all  —  the  ecstasy,  the  gloom, 
All  the  sad  raptures  that  precede  the  tomb, 
The  fluttering  hope,  the  triumph,  and  the  care, 

The  wild  emotion,  and  the  sure  despair. 

240 


FRANCESCA   DA   RIMINI  241 

Not  every  friend  hath  friendship's,  finer  touch, 
To  pardon  passion,  when  it  mounts  too  much ; 
Not  every  soul  hath  proved  its  own  excess, 
And  feared  the  throb  it  still  would  not  repress. 
But  lie  whose  numbers  gave  you  unto  fame, 
Lord  of  the  lay,  —  I  need  not  sj>eak  his  name,  — 
Was  one  who  felt ;  whose  life  was  love  or  hate.; 
Born  for  extremes,  he  scorned  the  niiddle  state ; 
And  well  he  knew  that,  since  the  world  began, 
The  heart  was  master  in  the  world  of  man. 


IN  ECLIPSE 

PRAYER  strengthens  us;  but  oft  we  faint 
And  find  no  courage  even  to  pray ; 

Oh,  that  in  Heaven  some  pitying  saint 
For  me  might  Ave-Mary  say ! 

For  sometimes  present  pleasures  drown 
The  serious  vein,  and  some  dark  days 

Of  great,  overmastering  anguish  frown 
Amid  the  sacred  tapers'  blaze. 

Before  the  morning-watch  I  rose  — 
1  say  before  this  morn's  —  to  kneel, 

But  of  my  voice  the  fountain  froze, 
Yea,  something  seemed  my  soul  to  seal. 

And  now  I  know  what  rosaries  mean : 
That  oftentimes  the  heart  is  weak, 

And  cannot  to  the  Sire  unseen  .  , 
Its  dumb  petition  duly  speak. 

Yet  every  bead  may  count  with  Him, 
Who  healed  the  palsied  and  the  blind, 
242 


IN  ECLIPSE  243 

Restored  the  lame  and  withered  limb, 
And  lifted  the  disordered  mind, 

As  mine  was  then,  who  had  no  might 

Of  utterance  with  mine  iey  lips, 
For  one  great  Shadow  veiled  the  light 

Till  hoj>e  itself  was  in  eclipse. 

Eclipses  come,  and  also  pass  ; 

Let  us  not  dream  like  savage  men, 
With  shouts  and  cries  and  sounding  brass 

To  scare  that  Shadow  off  again ; 

But  take  the  phases  of  our  thought, 
As  of  the  planets  —  wanderers  they, 

Even  as  ourselves,  but  better  taught, 
Through  gloom  or  glory,  to  obey  — 

As  of  the  moon,  that  many  times 

Conceals  in  clouds  her  crescent  sheen, 

But  when  her  fullness  cometh,  climbs 
Above  Orion's  front,  serene. 


LUCERNA  SIS  PEDIBUS  MEIS 

LAMP  to  my  feet !  shine  forth  into  my  soul 
That  I  may  better  see  what  way  I  tread 
In  the  dark  hours  and  when  I  lose  control 
Of  mine  own  steps,  by  vague  desires  misled. 
In  faltering  moments,  when  I  scarce  can  pray, 
Through  failing  faith,  or  wandering  thoughts,  and 

sink 

Back  to  my  bondage,  let  thy  kindly  ray, 
Lamp  to  my  feet !  prevent  me  on  the  brink. 

244 


PARADISI  GLORIA 

"  O  f  rate  rnio !  ciaacuua  e  cittadina 
D'uua  vera  eitta"  .  .  . , 

THERE  is  a  city,  builded  by  110  hand, 
And  unapproachable  by  sea  or  shore, 

And  unassailable  by  any  band 

Of  storming  soldiery  for  evermore. 

There  we  no  longer  shall  divide  our  time 
By  acts  or  pleasures,  —  doing  petty  things 

Of  work  or  warfare,  merchandise  or  rhyme ; 
But  we  shall  sit  beside  the  silver  springs 

That  flow  from  God's  own  footstool,  and  behold 
Sages  and  martyrs,  and  those  blessed  few 

Who  loved  us  once  and  were  beloved  of  old, 
To  dwell  with  them  and  walk  with  them  anew, 

In  alternations  of  sublime  repose, 
Musical  motion,  the  perpetual  play 

Of  every  faculty  that  Heaven  bestows 

Through  the  bright,  busy,  and  eternal  day. 
245 


SURSUM  CORDA! 

WHENCE  comes  this  peace  ?     In  truth  it  doth  sur 
pass 

Man's  understanding  —  who  can  tell  me  whence  ? 
Wretched  I  was  and  weak,  and  went  to  mass 
In  such  dismay  as  unbelief  will  bring,  — 
A  thing  of  iron  with  a  heart  of  brass. 
But  even  as  I  knelt  a  peace  immense 
Flooded  my  soul ;  a  voice  began  to  sing 
Asperges  we,  and  then  I  shall  be  clean, 
Oh,  sprinkle  me  with  hyssop !  if  you  can 
Thereby  make  white  again  as  Wayland  snow 
Drifted  in  orchards  this  worn  spirit  of  mine, 
And  I  will  come  again,  thou  white-robed  man, 
And  through  the  mist  of  many  things  divine 
Shall  at  thy  Sursum  Corda!  leap  from  woe. 


NOTES  BY  THE  AUTHOR 

Page  2.     \\ras  peace,  that  pilgrim's  one  request. 
It  is  told  of  Dante  that,  wheu  he  was  roaming  over  Italy,  he 
came  to  a  certain  monastery,  where  he  was  met  by  one  of  the 
friars,  who  blessed  him,  and  asked  what  was  his  desire  ;  to  which 
the  weary  stranger  simply  answered,  "  Pace." 

Page  03.     .So  the  young  masttr  of  the  Human  realm.  —  Alexander 
Severus. 

Page  05.     To  wed  the  Assabet  and  take  thy  name. 
"  Rura  quu>  Liris  quietia 
Mordet  aquia,  taciturnua  aumia. " 

UOIUCB. 

The  Sudbury  flows  through  Wayland  meadows  to  meet  the 
Assabet  and  form  the  Concord  River,  which  joins  the  Merrimac 
in  Lowell.     It  may  be  considered  the  Liris  of  New  England. 
Page  05.     Metk  lover  of  the  good,  though  under  spell. 
"But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good  ! 
Fiud  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  ucaveu." 

EMERSON  in  Brahma. 

Page  65.     Of  those  who,  dazzled  by  some  sundog's  ray. 
"Sundog"  is  a  word  hardly  known  in  England;  but  in  New 
England  is  applied  to   the  luminous  counterfeit  of  the  sun  oc 
casionally  seen  here,  — a  mock-sun  easily  mistaken  for  the  god 
himself. 

Page  00.     These  gentle  pagans  to  thtir  straw-built  shed. 
"  Pagan  "   is  used  here  in  its  original  sense  of  rustics,  people 
who  prefer  to  dwell,  or  who  must  dwell,  in  villages  or  places 
like  "  Brook  Farm,1'  which  Hawthorne   has  celebrated   in   his 
"  Blithedale  Romance/9 


248  NOTES  BY   THE  AUTHOR 

Page  GO.     In  SUepy  Hollow,  and  the  word  "forgive." 
The   Lord's  Prayer  was   said  at  Emerson's  grave  by  all  the 
assembled  mourners. 

Page  00.     In  yonder  grave  thy  Druid  lies. 

"  Long,  long  thy  atone  and  pointed  clay 

Shall  melt  the  musing  Briton's  i-yeu  : 
O  v  .iK-.-i  and  wildwood,  shall  he  Bay  — 
In  yonder  grave  your  Druid  lien  !  " 

COLLINS. 

Page  74.     "  Peace  to  thee,  Mark!  evangelist  of  mine!  " 
The  legend  of  the  winged  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  seen  everywhere 
at  Venice,  —  **  Pax  tibi,  Marce  !  Evangelista  me  114." 
Page  100.    DECEMBEU  FOUUTEENTH. 

Calcutta,  Dec.  20,  1871. 

"All  sorts  and  conditions  of  men"  in  this  grout  Empire—- 
Jews,  Hindoos,  Mahominedans,  Parsees,  etc.,  as  well  as  the 
different  denominations  of  Christians  —  have,  during  the  past 
fortnight,  offered  up  prayers  for  the  recovery  of  the  Prince 
of  Wales.  On  the  14th  day  of  this  month  (a  great  Mahora- 
niedan  festival  —  the  "  Eeed-al-Ramzan  ")  a  thousand  Suni  Ma- 
hommedans  of  all  castes  assembled  for  prayer  in  the  great 
Mosque  endowed  by  the  sect  at  Bombay,  and  a  leading  member 
of  the  Suni  Khoju  Mahommedans  prayed  the  Almighty  for  the 
recovery  of  the  Prince.  The  day  is  said  to  have  been  selected 
as  a  peculiarly  holy  one,  and  the  prayers  to  have  been  most 
fervent.  A  Mahommedan  prayer-meeting  will  sound  oddly  to 
some  good  people  in  England,  but  it  cannot  fail  to  be  pleasing  to 
the  Queen  and  the  Koyal  Family  to  know  that  from  men  of  all 
creeds  in  this  great  part  of  Her  Majesty's  dominions  there  has 
arisen  one  common  and,  I  am  sure,  sincere  prayer  to  the  Great 
Father  of  all,  entreating  Him  to  spare  the  Heir  to  England's 
Throne.  • —  Letter  to  the  London  Times. 

Page  100.     Those  dark-eyed  Persians  in  their  Hindu  fanei. 
The  Parsees,  or  fire-worshipers. 


NOTES  BY  THE  AUTHOR  249 

Page  111.  While  the  camefc,  resting  round  hiwt  half  alarmed 
the  sullen  ox. 

Near  Pisa  a  herd  of  camels  is  kept,  upon  a  farm  belonging 
to  the  Grand  Duke.  The  ancestors  of  these  animals  were  brought 
thither  during  the  Crusades.  Some  of  them  are  employed  iu  the 
work  of  the  farm,  and  others  may  be  met  straying  about  iu  the 
pine-woods  or  along  the  sands  of  the  coast. 

u  These  sands,  with  the  sea,  the  camels,  the  purity  and  bright 
ness  of  the  sky,  the  solitude  and  silence,  give  this  picture  some- 
thing  Oriental,  novel,  and  poetical,  which  pleases  the  fancy,  and 
transports  it  to  the  desert."  —  VALEKY. 

Page  111.  Strains  perchance  to  maiden's  hearing  sweeter  than 
this  verse  of  mine. 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges. 

Page  110.     Miyht.the  gross  Bourbon  —  he  that  sleeps  in  spite. 

Written  HI  Naples,  during  the  reign  of  the  King  that  bom 
barded  Palermo. 

Page  110.     Thou  Scottish  Tweed,  a  sacred  streamlet  now! 

"  As  I  was  dressing  on  the  morning  of  Monday,  the  1 7th  of 
September,  Nicolsou  came  into  my  room,  and  told  me  that  hU 
master  had  awoke  in  a  state  of  composure  and  consciousness,  and 
wished  to  see  m  •  immediately.  I  found  him  entirely  himself, 
though  in  the  last  extreme  of  feebleness.  His  eye  was  clear  and 
calm, — every  trace  of  the  wild  fire  of  delirium  extinguished. 
'  Lockhart,'  he  said,  *  I  may  have  but  a  minute  to  speak  to  you. 
My  dear,  be  a  good  man ;  —  be  virtuous,  —  be  religious,  —  be  a 
good  man.  Nothing  else  will  give  you  any  comfort  when  you 
come  to  lie  here.'  He  paused,  and  I  said,  *  Shall  I  send  for 
Sophia  and  Anne  ?  '  —  k  No,'  said  he  ;  *  don't  disturb  them. 
Poor  souls !  I  know  they  were  up  all  night.  God  bless  you 
all!  '  With  this  he  sunk  into  a  very  tranquil  sleep,  and,  indeed, 
he  scarcely  afterwards  gave  any  sign  of  consciousness,  except  for 
an  instant  on  the  arrival  of  his  sons.  They,  on  learning  that  the 
scene  was  about  to  close,  obtained  a  new  leave  of  absence  from 
their  posts;  and  both  reached  Abbotsford  on  the  li»th.  About  half 


250  NOTES  BY  THE  AUTHOR 

past  one  P.  M.,  on  the  21st  of  September,  Sir  Walter  breathed 
his  last  in  the  presence  of  all  his  children.  It  was  a  beautiful 
day:  so  warm  that  every  window  was  wide  open,  and  so  per 
fectly  stiP  that  the  sound  uf  all  othera  most  delicious  to  ilia  ear  — 
the  gentle  ripple  of  the  Tweed  over  its  pebbles — was  distinctly 
audible,  as  we  knelt  around  the  bed ;  and  his  eldest  son  kissed 
and  closed  his  eyes."  —  LOCKHAHT'S  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Page  143.  THE  OLD  H<u  SK  IN  SUI*HUKY  TWENTY  YKAUB 
AFTER  WAUD&. 

This  Old  House  ia  the  one  celebrated  by  Longfellow  as  the 
Wayside  Inn.  It  was  the  first  large  farmhouse  and  hostelry 
opened  on  the  high  road  between  Boston  and  the  Connecticut 
River,  and  is  still  occupied  (1872),  though  not  as  a  tavern.  It  was 
always,  from  its  erection  in  ICiK),  the  estate  of  one  family,  whose 
last  direct  descendants  were  Lyman  Howe  and  Adam  his  brother. 

The  former  passed  through  life  with  a  strange  fear  of  light 
ning  ;  but  the  dreaded  stroke  never  came  until  many  years  after 
his  death,  when  the  structure  was  somewhat  damaged. 

Page  144.     On  the  rainbow-colored  pane* 

Prismatic-hued  from  extreme  age. 

Page  221.    So  that  a  stujtor  o.n  the  fjiirit  stole 
From  thinya  unknown. 

•*  E  stupor  »u'  erau  le  cote  non  conte." 

DANTL  :  Purgatorio,  XT.  12. 

Page  220.     To  Dionysius  and  his  tyrant  throng. 

Dante,  in  the  twelfth  Canto  of  the  Inferno,  describes  the 
tyrants  who  outraged  humanity  as  plunged  in  a  river  of  boiling 
blood,  while  Centaurs  gallop  about  the  stream,  shooting  them 
with  arrows.  Among  these  sinners  he  numbers  Attila,  Dionysius, 
Obizzo  of  Este,  and  Ezzelino,  the  tyrant  of  Padua. 

Page  '231.     Both  creatures,  covered  with  one  furry  stole. 

*'  Both  beauts  furred  over  with  a  single  stole,"  or,  "  two  beasts 
under  one  skin,"  would  be  nearer  to  Dante's  expression;  but  the 
worthy  Jesuit,  the  Padre  Venturi,  cries  out  upon  this,  "Motto 
pltbcv,  e  da  mtrcato  vtcchio  !  " 


794 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-8,'66(G5530s4)458 


N° 


PS2523 

Parsons,  T.W,  P8 

Poems.  1893 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF   CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


